Part 11

An' so our hands is quite ver' full, Will be, for som' tam' long, But ven old age is dreeft our vay An' rest is our belong, It's den ve'll miss de gran' rac_quette_,-- May want again de noise Of six more little children An' mos'ly girls and boys.

BIGGS' BAR

BY HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND

'Twas a sultry afternoon, about the middle of July, And the men who loafed in Dawson were feeling very dry. Of liquor there had long been none except a barrel or two, And that was kept by Major Walsh for himself and a lucky few.

Now, the men who loaf in Dawson are loafers to the bone, And take it easy in a way peculiarly their own; They sit upon the sidewalks and smoke and spit and chew, And watch the other loafers, and wonder who is who.

They only work in winter, when the days are short and cold, And then they heat their cabins, and talk and talk of gold; They talk about provisions, and sometimes take a walk, But then they hurry back again and talk, and talk, and talk.

And the men who loaf in Dawson are superior to style, For the man who wears a coat _and_ vest is apt to cause a smile; While he who sports suspenders or a belt would be a butt, And cause ironic comment, and end by being cut.

The afternoon was sultry, as I said some time before; 'Twas fully ninety in the shade (in the sun a darn sight more), And the men who sat on the sidewalks were, one and all, so dry That only one perspired, though every one did try.

Six men were sitting in a line and praying God for air; They were Joaquin Miller and "Lumber" Lynch and "Stogey" Jack Ver Mehr, "Swift-water" Bill and "Caribou" Bill and a sick man from the hills, Who came to town to swap his dust for a box of liver pills.

I said they prayed for air, and yet perhaps I tell a lie, For none of them are holy men, and all of them were dry; And so I guess 'tis best for me to say just what I think-- They prayed the Lord to pity them and send them all a drink.

Then up spoke Joaquin Miller, as he shook his golden locks, And picked the Dawson splinters from his moccasins and socks (The others paid attention, for when times are out of joint What Joaquin Miller utters is always to the point):

"A foot-sore, weary traveler," the Poet then began, "Did tell me many moons ago,--and oh! I loved the man,-- That Biggs who owns the claim next mine had started up a bar. Let's wander there and quench our thirst." All answered, "Right you are."

Now, Biggs is on Bonanza Creek, claim ninety-six, below; There may be millions in it, and there may not; none will know Until he gets to bedrock or till bedrock comes to him-- For Arthur takes it easy and is strictly in the swim.

It is true, behind his cabin he has sunk a mighty shaft (When the husky miners saw it they turned aside and laughed); But Biggs enjoys his bacon, and smokes his pipe and sings, Content to be enrolled among the great Bonanza Kings.

'Tis full three miles from Dawson town to Biggs' little claim; The miners' curses on the trail would make you blush with shame The while they slip, or stub their toes against the roots, or sink Twelve inches in the mud and slime before their eyes can wink.

But little cared our gallant six for roots, or slime, or mud, For they were out for liquor as a soldier is for blood; They hustled through the forest, nor stopped until they saw Biggs, wrapt in contemplation, beside his cabin door.

He rose to greet his visitors, and ask them for the news, And said he was so lonesome that he always had the blues; He hadn't seen a paper for eighteen months, he said, And that had been in Japanese--a language worse than dead.

They satisfied his thirst for news, then thought they of their own, And Miller looked him in the eye and gave a little groan, And all six men across their mouths did pass a sun-burnt hand In a manner most deliberate, which all can understand.

"We heard you keep a bar, good Biggs," the gentle Poet said! "And so we thought we'd hold you up, and we are almost dead!" He said no more. Biggs understood, and thusly spoke to them In accents somewhat British and prefixed with a "Hem!"

"The bar you'll find a few yards hence as up that trail you go; I never keep my liquor in the blooming 'ouse, you know. Just mush along and take a drink, and when you are content Come back and tell me, if you can, who now is President."

They mushed along, those weary men, nor looked to left or right, But thought of how each cooling drink would trickle out of sight; And very soon they found the goal they came for from afar-- _A keg, half full of water, in a good old gravel bar!_

THE BACKSLIDING BROTHER

BY FRANK L. STANTON

De screech owl screech f'um de ol' barn lof'; "You drinked yo' dram sence you done swear off; En you gwine de way Whar' de sinners stay, En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

Den de ol' ha'nt say, f'um de ol' chu'ch wall: "You des so triflin' dat you _had_ ter fall! En you gwine de way Whar' de brimstone stay, En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

Den I shake en shiver, En I hunt fer kiver, En I cry ter de good Lawd, "Please deliver!" I tell 'im plain Dat my hopes is vain, En I drinked my dram fer ter ease my pain!

Den de screech owl screech f'um de north ter south "You drinked yo' dram, en you _smacked_ yo' _mouth_! En you gwine de way Whar' de brimstone stay, En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

YE LEGEND OF SIR YRONCLADDE

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

Now, whenne ye goode knyghte Yroncladde Hadde dwelte in Paradyse A matter of a thousand yeares, He syghed some grievous syghes, And went unto the entrance gate To speake hym in thys wyse:

"Beholde, I do not wysh to make A rackette, nor a fuss, And yet I fayne wolde hie awaye And cease from livyng thus; For it is moste too peaceful here, And sore monotonous."

"Oh, verie welle," ye keeper sayde, "You shall have your desyre: Go downe uponne ye earth agayne To see whatte you admyre-- But take goode heede that you shall keepe Your trolley on ye wyre."

Ryghte gladde was goode Sir Yroncladde To see ye gates unsealed. He toke a jumpe strayghte through ye cloudes To what was there revealed, And strayghtwaye lit uponne ye grounde Whych was a footeball field!

"Gadzookes!" he sayde; "now, here is sporte! Thys is a goodlie syghte. For joustynges soche as here abound I have an appetyte; So I will amble to ye scrappe, For that is my delyghte."

He strode into ye hurtlynge mass, Whence rose a thrillynge sounde Of class yelles, sygnalles, breakynge bones, And moanynges all arounde; And thenne ye footeballe menne tooke hym And pushed hym in ye grounde!

They brake hys breastplayte into bits, And shattered all hys greaves; They fractured bothe hys myghtie armes Withynne hys chaynemayle sleeves, And wounde hys massyve legges ynto Some oryentalle weaves.

Uppe rose ye brave Sir Yroncladde And groaned, "I hadde no wrong! I'll hustle back to Paradyse, And ryng ye entraunce gong; For thys new croppe of earthlie knyghtes At joustynge is too strong; And henceforth thys is my resolve: To staye where I belong!"

WINTER DUSK

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK

The prospect is bare and white, And the air is crisp and chill; While the ebon wings of night Are spread on the distant hill.

The roar of the stormy sea Seem the dirges shrill and sharp That winter plays on the tree-- His wild Æolian harp.

In the pool that darkly creeps In ripples before the gale, A star like a lily sleeps And wiggles its silver tail.

A MOTHER OF FOUR

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS

"You are fortunate to find us alone, Mrs. Merritt. With four girls, it is simply terrible--callers underfoot wherever you stir. You must know something about it, with two daughters; so you can fancy it multiplied by two. Really, sometimes I get out of all patience--I haven't a corner of my house to myself on Sundays! But I realize it is the penalty for having four lively daughters, and I have to put up with it."

Mrs. Merritt, the visitor, had a gently worried air as she glanced from the twins, thin and big-boned, reading by the fire, to pretty, affected Amélie at the tea-table, and the apathetic Enid furtively watching the front steps from the bay window. Something in her expression seemed to imply a humble wonder as to what might constitute the elements of high popularity, since her two dear girls--

"Of course, mine have their friends," she asserted; it was an admission that perhaps the door-bell was not overworked. "I enjoy young life," she added.

"Oh, yes, in moderation!" Mrs. Baldwin laughed from the depths of the complacent prosperity that irradiated her handsome white hair and active brown eyes, her pleasant rosiness, and even her compact stoutness, suggesting strength rather than weight. "But since Enid became engaged, that means Harry all the time--there's my library gone; and with the other three filling both drawing-rooms and the reception-room, I have to take to the dining-room, myself! There they begin," she added, as Enid left the window and slipped out into the hall, closing the door after her. "Now we shall have no peace until Monday morning. You know how it is!"

Mrs. Merritt seemed depressed, and soon took her leave.

The twins, when they were left alone in the drawing-room, lifted their heads and exchanged long and solemn looks; then returned to their reading in silence. When it grew too dark by the fire, they carried their books to the bay window, but drew back as they saw a pale and puny youth with a retreating chin coming up the front steps.

"The rush has begun," murmured Cora.

"Amélie can have him," Dora returned. "Let's fly."

They retreated up-stairs and read peacefully until tea-time. The bell did not ring again. When they came down, Mrs. Baldwin eyed them irritably.

"Why don't you ask the Carryl boys in to Sunday tea some time? They will think you have forgotten them. And Mr. White and that nice Mr. Morton who lives with him--I am afraid you have offended them in some way. They used to be here all the time."

"They only came twice, and those were party calls," said Dora bluntly.

"My dear, you have forgotten," was the firm answer. "They were here constantly. I shall send them a line; I don't like to have them think we have gone back on them."

"Oh, I--I wouldn't," began Cora, but was put down with decision:

"When I need your advice, Cora, I will ask for it. Amélie, dear, you look tired; I am afraid you have had too much gaiety this afternoon."

"Oh, I love it! It's the breath of life to me," said Amélie rapturously. The twins again exchanged solemn looks and sat down to their tea in silence. Mrs. Baldwin attacked them peevishly at intervals; she was cross at Enid also, who had not kept Harry to supper, and preserved an indifferent silence under questioning. "When I was your age--!" was the burden of her speech.

"I must give a dance for you young people," she decided. "You need livening up."

"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Amélie.

"We have not had one this winter--I don't know what I have been thinking about," Mrs. Baldwin went on with returning cheerfulness. "We won't ask more than a hundred. You must have a new frock, Amélie. Enid, how is your blue one?"

"Oh, all right," said Enid indifferently. Mrs. Baldwin turned to the twins, and found them looking frankly dismayed.

"Well, what is it now?" she exclaimed. "I am sure I try to give you as good times as any girls in town; not many mothers on my income would do half so much. And you sit looking as if you were going to execution!"

"We--we do appreciate it, mother," urged Cora, unhappily.

"But we aren't howling successes at parties," Dora added.

"Nonsense! You have partners to spare." Mrs. Baldwin was plainly angry. "No child of mine was ever a wallflower, nor ever will be. Never let me hear you say such a thing again. You would have twice the attention if you weren't always poking off by yourselves; and as it is, you have more than most girls. You frighten the men--they think you are proud. Show a little interest in them and see how pleased they will be!"

The twins looked dubious, and seized the first chance to escape. In their own room they confronted each other dismally.

"Of course they will ask us, in our own house; we won't have to sit and sit," said Cora with a sigh.

"But it's almost worse when they ask you for that reason," objected Dora.

"I know! I feel so sorry for them, and so apologetic. If mother would _only_ let us go and teach at Miss Browne's; then we could show we were really good for something. We shouldn't have to shine at parties."

"We shouldn't have to go to them! Come on, let's do some Latin. I want to forget the hateful thing."

Cora got down the books and drew their chairs up to the student-lamp. "I know I shouldn't be such a stick if I didn't have to wear low neck," she said. "I am always thinking about those awful collar-bones, and trying to hold my shoulders so as not to make them worse."

"Oh, don't I know!" Dora had slipped on a soft red wrapper, and threw a blue one to her sister. When they were curled up in their big, cushioned chairs, they smiled appreciatively at each other.

"Isn't this nicer than any party ever invented?" they exclaimed. Dora opened her books with energy, but Cora sat musing.

"I dare say that somewhere there are parties for our kind," she said, finally. "Not with silly little chinless boys or popular men who are always trying to get away, but men who study and care about things--who go to Greece and dig ruins, for instance, or study sociology, and think more about one's mind than one's collar-bones."

Dora shook her head. "But they don't go to parties!"

"Both Mr. Morton and Mr. White do, sometimes," Cora suggested. "They aren't like the rest. I thought that tenement-house work they told us about was most interesting. But they would call if they wanted to," she added.

The twins in wrappers, bending over their books, had a certain comeliness. There was even an austere beauty in their wide, high foreheads, their fine, straight dark hair, their serious gray eyes and sensitive mouths, pensive but not without humor and sweetness. But the twins in evening dress, their unwilling hair flower-crowned and bolstered into pompadours, their big-boned thinness contrasted with Amélie's plump curves, their elbows betraying the red disks of serious application, were quite another matter, and they knew it. The night of the dance they came down-stairs with solemn, dutiful faces, and lifted submissive eyes to their mother for judgment. She was looking charmingly pretty herself, carrying her thick white hair with a humorous boldness, and her smiling brown eyes were younger than their gray ones.

"Very well, twinnies! Now you look something like human girls," she said gaily. "Run and have a beautiful time. Ah, Amélie, you little fairy! They will all be on their knees to you to-night. Where is Enid?"

"Nowhere near dressed, and she won't hurry," Amélie explained. "Oh, I am so excited, I shall die! What if no one asks me to dance!"

"Silly!" Mrs. Baldwin laughed. "I am only afraid of your dancing yourself to death. Ah, Mrs. Merritt, how good of you to come with your dear girls! And Mr. Merritt--this is better than I dared hope."

The rooms filled rapidly. Enid, after one languid waltz, disappeared with Harry and was not seen again till supper. Amélie flew from partner to partner, pouring streams of vivacious talk into patient masculine ears. The twins were dutifully taken out in turn and unfailingly brought back. Both Mr. White and Mr. Morton came, serious young men who danced little, and looked on more as if the affair were a problem in sociology than an entertainment. There were plenty of men, for Mrs. Baldwin's entertainments had a reputation in the matter of supper, music, and floors.

"After you've worked through the family, you can have a ripping old time," Cora heard one youth explain to another; a moment later he stood in front of her, begging the honor of a waltz. She felt no resentment; her sympathies were all with him. She looked up with gentle seriousness.

"You needn't, you know," she said. "Dora and I don't really expect it--we understand." He looked so puzzled that she added: "I overheard you just now, about 'working through the family.'"

He grew distressfully red and stammered wildly. Cora came at once to his rescue.

"Really, it's all right. We don't like parties, ourselves; only it is hard on mother to have such sticks of daughters, so we do our best. But we never mind when people don't ask us. Sometimes we almost wish they wouldn't."

The youth was trying desperately to collect himself. "What _do_ you like, then?" he managed to ask.

"Oh, books, and the country, and not having to be introduced to people." She was trying to put him at his ease. "We really do like dancing: we do it better than you'd think, for mother made us keep at it. If only we didn't have to have partners and think of things to say to them!" She held out her hand, "Thank you ever so much for asking me, but I'd truly rather not." He wrung her hand, muttered something about "later, then," and fled, still red about the ears. Cora returned to her mother.

"Well, my dear, you seemed to be having a tremendous flirtation with that youth," laughed Mrs. Baldwin. "Such a hand-clasp at parting! Don't dance too hard, child." She turned to the half-dozen parents supporting her. "These crazy girls of mine will dance themselves to death if I don't keep an eye on them," she explained. "Amélie says, 'Mother, how can I help splitting my dances, when they beg me to?' I am always relieved when the dance is over and they are safe in bed--then I know they aren't killing themselves. The men have no mercy--they never let them rest an instant."

"I don't see Miss Enid about," suggested Mr. Merritt. "I suppose she and her Harry--!"

"Oh, I suppose so!" Mrs. Baldwin shook her head resignedly. "The bad child insists on being married in the spring, but I simply can not face the idea. What can I do to prevent it, Mrs. Merritt?"

"I am afraid you can't," smiled Mrs. Merritt. "We mothers all have to face that."

"Ah, but not so soon! It is dreadful to have one's girls taken away. I watch the others like a hawk; the instant a man looks too serious--pouf!--I whisk him away!"

Cora stood looking down, with set lips; a flush had risen in her usually pale cheeks. Dora, setting free an impatient partner, joined her and they drew aside.

"It does make me so ashamed!" said Cora, impulsively.

"I think mother really makes herself believe it," said Dora, with instant understanding.

They watched Amélie flutter up to their mother to have a bow retied, and stand radiant under the raillery, though she made a decent pretense of pouting. Her partner vanished, and Mrs. Baldwin insisted on her resting "for one minute," which ended when another partner appeared.

"Amélie is asked much more than we are, always," Cora suggested. Dora nodded at the implication.

"I know. I wonder why it never seems quite real. Perhaps because the devoted ones are such silly little men."

"Or seem to us so," Cora amended conscientiously. "Don't you wish we might creep up-stairs? Oh, me, here comes a man, just hating it! Which do you suppose he will--Oh, thank you, with pleasure, Mr. Dorr!" Cora was led away, and Dora slipped into the next room, that her mother might not be vexed at her partnerless state.

Mrs. Baldwin saw to it that the twins had partners for supper, and seated them at a table with half a dozen lively spirits, where they ate in submissive silence while the talk flowed over and about them. No one seemed to remember that they were there, yet they felt big and awkward, conspicuous with neglect, thoroughly forlorn. When they rose, the others moved off in a group, leaving them stranded. Mrs. Baldwin beckoned them to her table with her fan.

"Well, twinnies, yours was the noisiest table in the room," she laughed. "I was quite ashamed of you! When these quiet girls get going--!" she added expressively to her group. The twins flushed, standing with shamed eyes averted. In the rooms above the music had started, and the bright procession moved up the stairs with laughter and the shine of lights on white shoulders; they all seemed to belong together, to be glad of one another. "Well, run along and dance your little feet off," said Mrs. Baldwin gaily.

They hurried away, and without a word mounted by the back stairs to their own room. When their eyes met, a flash of anger kindled, grew to a blaze.

"Oh, I won't stand it, I won't!" exclaimed Dora, jerking the wreath of forget-me-nots out of her hair and throwing it on the dressing-table. "We have been humiliated long enough. Cora, we're twenty-four; it is time we had our own way."

Cora was breathing hard. "Dora, I will never go to another party as long as I live," she said.

"Nor I," declared Dora.

They sat down side by side on the couch to discuss ways and means. A weight seemed to be lifted off their lives. In the midst of their eager planning the door opened and Mrs. Baldwin looked in at them with a displeased frown.

"Girls, what does this mean?" she exclaimed. "Come down at once. What are you thinking of, to leave your guests like this!"

The twins felt that the moment had come, and instinctively clasped hands as they rose to meet it.

"Mother," said Dora firmly, "we have done with parties forever and ever. No one likes us nor wants to dance with us, and we can't stand it any more."

"Miss Browne still wants us to come there and teach," Cora added, her voice husky but her eyes bright. "So we can be self-supporting, if--if you don't approve. We are twenty-four, and we have to live our own lives."

They stood bravely for annihilation. Mrs. Baldwin laughed.

"You foolish twinnies! I know--some one has been hurting your feelings. Believe me, my dears, even I did not always get just the partner my heart was set on! And I cried over it in secret, just like any other little girl. That is life, you know--we can't give up before it. Now smooth yourselves and come down, for some of them are leaving."