PART TWO

Identification of the Reader with the Story, or Sympathetic Reading

FIRST STEP. Getting the author’s MOOD. Catching the author’s vision. Emotional response. Distinguishing between ordinary reading and reading with author’s emotional appreciation. Emphasizing value of MOOD. Discussing control of emotion. Repressed feeling versus expressed feeling.

SECOND STEP. Word meaning—relation of word to group. Associative meaning of words. More vocabulary. Study of tone color. Use of Onomatopœia.

THIRD STEP. Study of Moods. Variety of Moods. Change and inter-change of Moods in a selection. Human nature and Mood. Colloquial expressions of the same Mood in classical language.

“Blessings upon all the books that are the delight of childhood and youth and unperverted manhood! Precious are the sympathetic tears which dim the page and which it is so wholesome to encourage in early life as a check to the growth of selfishness and egoism.”

—HIRAM CORSON, “The Voice and Spiritual Education,” p. 163.

## CHAPTER IX

GETTING THE AUTHOR’S MOOD

HINTS TO THE STUDENT

Before the pupil is ready for this second step, _Sympathetic Reading_, he must have mastered part one, _Intelligible Reading_. The first step was concerned primarily with the development of the intellect, but the second step appeals primarily to the emotions, one’s sympathetic response to _mood_.

The outlines for the study of a selection, given later, will be found very helpful as a basis and guide for study and analysis.

MEMORABILIA

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new!

But you were living before that, And also you are living after; And the memory I started at— My starting moves your laughter!

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world, no doubt, Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone ’Mid the blank miles round about:

For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! Well, I forget the rest.

THE JOY OF THE HUMAN VOICE

How much squandering there is of the voice! How little there is of the advantage that may come from conversational tones! How seldom does a man dare to acquit himself with pathos and fervor! And the men are themselves mechanical and methodical in the bad way who are most afraid of the artificial training that is given in the schools, and who so often show by the fruit of their labor that the want of oratory is the want of education.

How remarkable is the sweetness of voice in the mother, in the father, in the household! The music of no chorded instruments brought together is, for sweetness, like the music of familiar affection when spoken by brother and sister, or by father and mother.

—HENRY WARD BEECHER, from “Lectures on Oratory.”

The one great object in reading is to get at the mind of the author. What did he mean? What did he intend me to feel as I read? What is his real message? How can I best reach the mind and heart of the author, the poet, the dramatist, through his written words?

This is the real mission of literature, and he is a poor teacher who fails to impress the heart of his students with its importance. Too often teachers spend the valuable time of their students with matters of entirely subsidiary importance, such as the style of the author, questions as to when, where and how he wrote, his figures of speech, his methods of composition, and the like. All these are of importance to those who are learning to write, and are of interest to others, but the prime reason for all literature is that the author has something of greater or lesser importance to say, which he wishes to reach the mind and heart of his reader.

Take, for instance, Browning’s exquisite short poem above. What good does it do the student to engage his attention with Browning’s style, his verse forms, etc.? To him the matter of prime importance is that he shall know what Browning _meant_.

_This is the vital question in all reading._

That literature which is a mere collection of fine words, beautifully arranged in perfect sentences, is “as sounding brass and a clanging cymbal.” To have any real significance it must be surcharged with high, lofty, pure, stirring human emotion; and to feel the same emotion that the writer felt as he penned poem, essay, novel, story or drama is the aim of every intelligent and thoughtful reader. One of the best possible ways of accomplishing this is by reading aloud—even when one is alone. One writer boldly affirms that we can never know the vital, spiritual message of a writer until we have put his words upon our tongue and sent them winging away in speech, freighted with the meaning that has reached our minds.

In reading carefully this poem of Browning, observe if the very nature of the theme does not demand the various modulations of the human voice to give it adequate interpretation. Repeat the first two lines, thinking of their purpose, and then see if you do not feel somewhat of an emotional thrill which must be akin to that which was felt by Browning when he thought of his great teacher, that marvelous poet, Shelley.

Is it possible really to get the heart throb of this poem unless we sing it out through the voice? The major portion of time spent in literary study should be through oral interpretation. Let a pupil read to you, and instantly you can detect whether or not he understands what he is reading. Corson said he believed the time is coming when examinations in literature will be wholly oral. He goes on to say:

Reading must supply all the deficiencies of written or printed language. It must give life to the letter. How comparatively little is addressed to the eye, in print or manuscript, of what has to be addressed to the ear by the reader! There are no indications of tone, quality of voice, inflection, pitch, time, or any other of the vocal functions demanded for a full intellectual and spiritual interpretation. A poem is not truly a poem until it is voiced by an accomplished reader, who has adequately assimilated it—in whom it has, to some extent, been born again, according to his individual spiritual constitution and experiences. The potentialities, so to speak, of the printed poem, must be vocally realized. What Shelley, in his lines “To a Lady, With a Guitar,” says of what the revealings of the instrument depend upon, may be said with equal truth of the revealings of every true poem; it

“Will not tell To those who cannot question well The spirit that inhabits it; It talks according to the wit Of its companions; and no more Is heard than has been felt before,”

by those who endeavor to get at its secrets.

—HIRAM CORSON, “The Voice and Spiritual Education,” p. 29.

In this same connection let us add what Goethe has said:

Persuasion, friends, comes not by wit nor art, Hard study never made the matter clearer. ’Tis the live fountain in the speaker’s heart Sends forth the streams that melt the ravished hearer; Then work away for life, heap book upon book, Line upon line, precept upon example; The multitude may gape and look And fools may think your wisdom ample— But would you touch the heart, the only method known, My friend, is first to have one of your own.

MOOD-ANALYSIS

The following is an illustration of what might be called the “mood-analysis” of a selection. For the sake of convenience the sentences in the excerpt are numbered. The important thing for the student to bear in mind is to see that the author’s purpose is completely grasped, and then render it in the proper mood.

_First_: Read the selection paragraph by paragraph. Then arrange the several points in their respective order. Now give them orally as simply and progressively as possible.

_Second_: Read the selection again by paragraphs and this time determine what are the important and unimportant words. Then give these important words a greater force of utterance.

_Third_: Do not fear to make many groups. It is imperative to grasp the author’s ideas and pictures in separate detail. When each of these has been well thought over, we are then ready to put these separate parts into one complete and harmonious whole.

_Fourth_: Determine the mood which dominates each separate picture or detail, then see how these fit into each other, like the parts of a picture puzzle, perfecting the thought as a whole and making it a living, harmonious, mental or spiritual conception.

THE MAN WHO WEARS THE BUTTON

BY JOHN MELLEN THURSTON[6]

1. Sometimes in passing along the street I meet a man who, in the left lapel of his coat, wears a little, plain, modest, unassuming bronze button. 2. The coat is often old and rusty; the face above it seamed and furrowed by the toil and suffering of adverse years; perhaps beside it hangs an empty sleeve, and below it stumps a wooden peg. 3. But when I meet the man who wears that button I doff my hat and stand uncovered in his presence—yea! to me the very dust his weary foot has pressed is holy ground, for I know that man, in the dark hour of the nation’s peril, bared his breast to the hell of battle to keep the flag of our country in the Union sky.

4. Maybe at Donaldson he reached the inner trench; at Shiloh held the broken line; at Chattanooga climbed the flame-swept hill, or stormed the clouds on Lookout Heights. 5. He was not born or bred to soldier life. 6. His country’s summons called him from the plow, the forge, the bench, the loom, the mine, the store, the office, the college, the sanctuary. 7. He did not fight for greed of gold, to find adventure, or to win renown. 8. He loved the peace of quiet ways, and yet he broke the clasp of clinging arms, turned from the witching glance of tender eyes, left good-by kisses upon tiny lips to look death in the face on desperate fields.

9. And when the war was over he quietly took up the broken threads of love and life as best he could, a better citizen for having been so good a soldier.

10. What mighty men have worn this same bronze button! Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Logan, and an hundred more, whose names are written on the title-page of deathless fame. 11. Their glorious victories are known of men; the history of their country gives them voice; the white light of publicity illuminates them for every one. 12. But there are thousands who, in humbler way, no less deserve applause. 13. How many knightliest acts of chivalry were never seen beyond the line or heard of above the roar of battle.

14. God bless the men who wear the button! 15. They pinned the stars of Union in the azure of our flag with bayonets, and made atonement for a nation’s sin in blood. 16. They took the negro from the auction-block and at the altar of emancipation crowned him—citizen. 17. They supplemented “Yankee Doodle” with “Glory Hallelujah,” and Yorktown with Appomattox. 18. Their powder woke the morn of universal freedom and made the name “American” first in all the earth. 19. To us their memory is an inspiration, and to the future it is hope.—From an address at a banquet of the Michigan Club of Detroit, February 21, 1890.

(_To find the designated mood of any sentence in the above selection refer to its corresponding number below._)

1. Pleasant meditation. 2. Pity and compassion. 3. Veneration and pride. 4. Heroism and triumph. 5 and 6. Loyal self-denial. 7 and 8. Heroic self-sacrifice. 9. Admiration and enterprise. 10. Compassion. 11. Praise and honor. 12 and 13. Contrast. 14. Supplication. 15. Heroic patriotism. 16. Justice. 17. Unity. 18. Sublimity. 19. Gratitude.

Now take Joaquin Miller’s magnificent and stirring poem “Columbus” and analyze it in the same fashion. Here is the analysis made of it by an intelligent reader on his own initiative, without any knowledge of the method we would have each student master and follow:

A STUDENT’S ANALYSIS OF “COLUMBUS”

First dwell upon the outlines of the history of Columbus, his early struggles and mastery of hardships. Recall that it was in his day that the new idea of the rotundity of the earth was being largely discussed. Watch the growth of this idea in his thought, until there springs up the confident assurance that if this idea be true it must be possible to reach India—or any other land—by sailing around the earth in _either_ direction. Confident of his idea, his scientific mind demands knowledge, demonstration. He seeks help to find out. Is rebuffed on every hand. Called crazy, insane, a fool, a lunatic. The idea persists. It grows into an obsession. _He_ knows, and now his soul demands that he compel _other people_ to know. The more rebuffs the greater his determination. Get hold here of the great fundamental thought that moves the universe, that works all the marvels that man has accomplished, viz., that when you link up with Truth, you are linked up with God—the Supreme Power of the Universe—and there cannot be any failure to a man so connected. All Columbus had to do was to _persist_. He did so, and finally Isabella and Ferdinand were convinced, the money needed was raised, the ship provided, and the happy, joyous Columbus sets sail to demonstrate to the world that which his soul had already convinced him was true.

Now remember the ignorance of the world at large on the subject. Recall that his sailors were densely ignorant and fearfully superstitious, but Columbus had never given that a thought.

He sets sail, full of delight, happiness, confidence. Now refer to the poem. 1. He and his sailors alike knew that the islands of the Azores and the Gates of Hercules were behind them. 2. Here, however, is a difference in the knowledge of Columbus and his sailors. He, with the eye of scientific confidence, could see ahead, though there was nothing in sight but shoreless seas, not even the ghost of shores. The sailors saw nothing but the uncharted and unknown seas. Do you not feel their awe and superstitious fears? Can you not picture their fearful whisperings together as they sail further and further into the unknown? The mate is the means of communication between them and the admiral. 3. Observe the _dread_ of sailors and mate. The stars with which they are familiar disappear and new and strange ones appear, adding new fuel to their superstitious fears. 4. The mate asks Columbus how he shall reply to these fears. His mood is one of fear and growing alarm excited into the

## action of questioning. 5. Now ask yourself: What would be Columbus’s

natural reply? Remember he has given years of thought to this subject. He has no question as to the success of the voyage. Expecting to sail on uncharted seas, they have no fears for him. He _knows_ what he will find when he has gone far enough around. The fears and questions of the mate are absurd, preposterous. There is but one answer: Calmly and confidently he gives it, “Why, say, Sail on! and on!” Matter of fact, almost indifferent, totally unconscious of the seething fears bubbling up every moment afresh in the hearts of his sailors. What kind of intonation in his voice would such a question call forth?

6. For the time being the questionings of the men are satisfied, and they _sail and sail_ (don’t hurry in giving this repetition) _as winds might blow_. The fears and questionings now begin afresh. 7. The fear is indicated in the word _blanched_, and in the mate’s words. 8. Being away from familiar scenes, and all other men, his and his sailors’ small minds fear that even God has lost sight of them. The winds are lost, God is not here. 9. Hence there is increasing urgency in his second appeal to the admiral. But Columbus (10), seeing the vision that has been familiar to him for many years, and preoccupied by his dream, neither sees any reason for fears, _nor does he yet become aware of the fear_ expressed in the mate’s voice. His reply, therefore, is the quiet, scarcely heard voice of the dreamer, given much lower and quieter than his ordinary talking voice, but with the deep intensity of a man who has but one purpose.

Pause now for a few moments to allow this quiet urge of the admiral to _sink in_. Don’t hurry. Then let the next stanza open with some degree of haste and excitement. 11. The mate’s tone now is one of definite, open remonstrance. It is all very well for his admiral to say “Sail on!” He—the mate—has to come in direct conflict with the men. _They_ are growing mutinous. They are growing _ghastly wan and weak_. Even he, 12, had begun to think of home and, in spite of himself, tears, 13 (for is not this suggested in “a spray of salt wave”?) washed his swarthy cheek. Hence now, his question is more definite. He seeks to “pin” the admiral down to a fixed time, 14. He gives him until _dawn_ to see land. But the admiral, feeling that each dawn sees him _nearer to the goal_ of his heart’s desire, and impatient that the foolish fears and unreasoning terrors of his men should even threaten the possible thwarting of this desire, replies sternly, impatiently and somewhat fiercely, 15. He shall say at break of day, land or no land, fears or no fears, _but one thing_, and he puts such emphasis upon it that no one can misunderstand.

Here, again, pause. Let this firm determination “seep” into the minds of the hearers. A few moments is long enough, but to speed on immediately to the fourth stanza is to lose a striking effect. Then, in perfectly natural, quiet voice, continue the story: _They sailed_. 16. Observe the repetition of this statement. Why is it repeated? A thoughtful author doesn’t repeat for nothing. Here, by the repetition, 17, Joaquin Miller seeks powerfully to impress upon his reader that after they had sailed a long, long way further, they _still_ sailed on. Hence, is it not apparent there must be quite a little pause between the first “they sailed” and the second? Try the effect of this and see the result.

Now, 18, the mate, forced by his own and his sailors’ fears, though assured of the displeasure of the admiral at his voicing of these fears, braves his anger by calling his attention to the coming storm on the sea, 19, and he becomes more agitated as he expresses his own fears, 20. Yet he knows the courage of the admiral, and consciously or unconsciously pays him the tribute of bravery. At the same time, as hope has almost fled from the bosoms of himself and his shipmates he asks the question, pleadingly, agonizingly: “_What shall we_, 22, _do when hope is gone_?” In the answer all of Columbus’s exasperation, despair, determination, are compressed. Has he studied, prayed, pleaded, striven for years, and come thus far to be balked by the fears of a few craven cowards? Is he _now_, just now, when success must be close within his reach, to fail? No! by the Eternal, he shall not fail! The childish cries of his men shall not avail. He will compel them to go on, and, as though he were maddened beyond control his words “leap like a leaping sword,” 23, and cleave the air with ringing sound that strikes down all opposition, _Sail on!_ _Sail on!_ SAIL ON! AND ON!

Let the crescendo come with all the power, force, voice, of which you are capable. Prepare for it. Get the lungs full of air. Put all the intensity and passion of a lifetime’s hopes, desires, ambitions, into it, and feel as though you had these cowardly sailors by the throat and were determined upon pouring your will into their craven souls.

Again pause, before going to the last stanza. Elbert Hubbard and his wife, both of whom were public speakers and readers of high order, regarded this sixth stanza as an anticlimax. Personally, I do not. Properly given, it is a most powerful climax to a most powerful poem. Ask yourself: After the expression of an overwhelming emotion, what natural reaction is felt? One of weariness. Add this thought to the thoughts expressed in the words. Long and endless vigils, harassment from his men, _doubts in his own soul_, which, however, he dare not voice. 25. That night was so dark because, crushed by long-continued opposition, and his body weakened by constant watchfulness, and the urge of his passion, even _he lost hope_. But thanks be to God, there are men like Columbus, who, even when hope seems gone, when there is no light whatever in “_that night of all dark nights_” still persist. For, is it not darkest just before dawn? Suddenly our minds are transferred to the lookout man. He sees a speck. 26. Wonderingly he looks at it again and again, until he is assured it is a light, so he gives the warning cry: “A light!” 27. Now notice the repetition of the word light. Four times it appears. Why? Most critics account such repetitions as proofs of an author’s weakness, but they little know Joaquin Miller who so regard his repetitions. Let your brain work awhile. Remember, Columbus and his sailors have been weeks away from land, sailing on unknown, uncharted seas. They are becoming used to seeing no land, nothing but seas upon which even the winds have lost their way. Yet the lookout sees a light. He satisfies himself. He gives the signal call: “A light!” For dramatic purposes we can imagine that every one on the vessel hears it. Incredulously they call out a query: “A light?” It cannot be! But, sure of himself, and seeing it more clearly each moment, the lookout assertingly replies, “A light! I tell you!” Then, all doubt removed, filled with joy, their fears dispersed, their bodings and apprehensions removed, the sailors hysterically and joyously unite in the cry: “A light!” and the reason for the four “a lights!” is made clear.

Now, the poet, 28, changes the thought and rapidly introduces figures of speech. The light on the first land seen by Columbus ultimately grows to the “starlit flag of freedom” of the United States, the flag of the people, the flag of a true republic, the flag of genuine democracy. But it grew further, 29. That light, and that flag, grew to be “Time’s burst of dawn.” In other words, until all men, everywhere, in every way, are _free_, mankind is still in the night. The dawn comes only when men can be themselves, as God intended they should when he created them. Hence triumphant joy should be expressed in speaking of this flag, and what it means to the world.

Then, calmly, quietly, bring the mind back to the admiral. What did he gain? 30. “A world.” And he gave that world its grandest lesson, that of persistence in following the vision of the higher and larger things, _On, Sail on!_

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores(1) Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores,(2) Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate(3) said: “Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Adm’r’l, speak, what shall I say?”(4) “Why, say,(5) ‘Sail on! Sail on and on!’”

They sailed and sailed(6) as winds might blow Until at last the blanched mate(7) said: “Why, now, not even God would know, Should I and all my men fall dead.(8) These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone, Brave Adm’r’l, speak, what shall I say?”(9) He said,(10) “Sail on! Sail on and on!”

“My men grow mutinous day by day;(11) My men grow ghastly wan and weak!” The stout mate thought of home;(12) a spray(13) Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. “What shall I say, brave Adm’r’l, say, If we sight(14) naught but seas at dawn?” “Why, you shall say, at break of day,(15) Sail on! Sail on! Sail on and on!”

They sailed.(16) They sailed.(17) Then spake(18) the mate: “This mad sea(19) shows his teeth to-night, He curls his lip, he lies in wait With lifted teeth,(20) as if to bite! Brave Adm’r’l,(21) say but one good word; What shall we(22) do when hope is gone?” The words leapt like a leaping sword:(23) “Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!”

Then pale and worn,(24) he paced his deck And peered through darkness. Ah, that night(25) Of all dark nights! And then a(26) speck— A light!(27) A light? A light! A light! It grew,(28) a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn.(29) He gained a world,(30) he gave that world Its grandest less’n: “On! Sail on!”

A SUGGESTIVE OUTLINE FOR THE STUDY OF A SELECTION

I. _Mastery of Main Theme_

The first step in the study of any selection is to gain an idea of it as a whole. This can best be done by reading the selection in its entirety. If there should be strange words, let them pass for the time being. Thus we grasp the predominant mood and significant setting or situation.

II. _Progressive Analysis_

Read the selection, silently, a second time. The aim now is to make a mental note of the several parts which make up the whole. This demands close concentration, in order that we may unify matters and prevent abrupt transitions. We are to break up the whole into parts, and each part represents a thought group.

1. Punctuation makes the meaning clear, and the clear meaning determines the various groups. Example: “It came, rushing in torrents like an avalanche of rock.” We do not pause after “came,” although it is so punctuated. Question: Do you find like instances in the selection under consideration? Where?

2. The length and frequency of the _pause_ which sets off the groups is dependent upon the context and upon the listeners. If the context is serious, or if the listeners are uneducated, there will of necessity be many groups. And obversely, if the context is not serious or difficult, or if the audience is educated, there will be fewer and longer groups.

Question: What is the situation in the present selection?

3. In the study of the chief word in the group we must remember that its real meaning depends upon its relation to the other words in the same group. For instance, the word “fire” does not mean the same thing at all times. The meaning of this word depends upon its kinship with other members of the same group. When we say, “The house is on fire,” this word “fire” means an altogether different thing than when we say, “There is a fire in the stove this morning.” Let us take care that we do not isolate words, but that we get their associative meanings.

Questions: What are the important words in the various groups? What is the real meaning of each? Why? Give five synonyms of each.

III. _Reference to Experience_

We are now prepared to call upon our storehouse of past experiences in order that we may identify ourselves more closely with the author’s meaning. We are to react upon what we read. The more vividly we can bring what we read from the page into our own actual experience, the more deeply are we impressed with its meaning. We translate the unseen, the unfelt and unbelieved by likening it to what is already seen, felt or believed. If experience is lacking, we draw upon our imagination.

1. If we are reading a description, we will see this scene in terms of a past like experience.

2. If we are reading a narration, we will feel it in terms of a past like experience.

3. If we are reading something we have not believed, we will accept it in terms of what we have already believed.

Question: What experiences does this selection call upon from me? What purposes do they serve?

IV. _Classification_

There are three divisions into which all selections may be put. A selection may be written to make something CLEAR; it may be for the purpose of inspiring, or elevating one’s thoughts and feelings—to make IMPRESSIVE; it may be for the purpose of enforcing some great truth—to make BELIEF. This classification is based upon the author’s purpose.

Questions: Where the author’s purpose is to make CLEAR some obscure point or idea.

1. What significant words are used?

2. Is there any obscurity? Why?

3. What illustrations or comparisons are made?

4. Think earnestly of an experience which will aid you to see clearly the author’s purpose.

Where the author’s purpose is IMPRESSIVENESS

1. Is the emotion aroused pleasurable?

2. Have you had an experience which resembles what is referred to?

3. What mood is predominant? Is it:

Impassioned, grave, sad, Triumphant, exalted, solemn, Humorous, satirical, pathetic, Inspiring, enheartening, discouraging?

4. What are the minor moods? Supply your own descriptive mood if none of the following are adequate:

Fanciful, enthusiastic, cheerful, Dreamy, sentimental, witty, Pensive, tender, serene, quiet,—or suggestive of Awe, loneliness, Admiration, suspense, joy, anger, Fear, rage, sympathy, grief, sorrow, surprise, anxiety.

Where the author’s purpose is BELIEF. The author does more than make us see, or feel.

1. What actual experience have you had that resembles the thing the author would have you believe?

2. Do you accept as truth what you have read?

3. What particular thought carries the most conviction?

4. Do you think others should believe what the author says?

5. Is it clear and impressive, and do you believe it?

V. _Setting_

This has to do with time, place, objects, sounds, movement, or anything that gives local color to the selection.

Questions:

1. Is it modern or old?

2. Where is the scene laid?

3. Are descriptions given in detail or mere suggestion?

4. Is dialect used?

5. Will personation aid in rendering the selection?

6. Does the power and beauty of the selection lie in narration, description, or in character drawing?

7. Name some definite things, sounds or objects described, that give color or atmosphere.

8. Is the movement:

Slow, swift, light, heavy, Tripping, graceful, spirited, Powerful, easy, varied?

VI. _Vocalization_

Let our guide be as Shakespeare has so well put it:

Let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word; the word to the action; with this special observance—that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature.

1. Read the selection as ordinary conversation.

2. Now read again as enlarged conversation, or, as it were, for the ears of many.

3. Ask yourself the following questions:

(1) Do I make proper use of Pitch? (2) Do I make proper use of Pause? (3) Do I make proper use of Inflection? (4) Do I make proper use of Tone Color? (5) Do I make proper use of Stress? (6) Do I make proper use of Movement?

4. At all times let us remember that our purpose is not to give a pleasing performance, but faithfully to interpret the author’s meaning.

A CONDENSED OUTLINE FOR THE STUDY OF A SELECTION FOR ORAL PRESENTATION

I. INTELLIGENT IMPRESSION

A. _General Preparation_

Read silently the entire selection. The purpose is to gain an impression of the selection as a whole.

1. What was the author’s purpose in writing this selection?

2. What specific intent did he have:

a. To make something clear? b. To make something impressive? c. To establish a truth? d. To stimulate to righteous action?

3. Consult the dictionary for the meaning of strange words.

4. Look up the historical references.

B. _Special Preparation_

Read the selection silently a second time. The aim is to make a mental note of the respective importance of the several parts which make up the whole.

1. What is the definite idea, or definite picture, or definite feeling the author would have us get?

2. In what part of the selection is the author’s aim most forcibly presented?

3. What is the relative value of the thought-groups?

II. INTELLIGIBLE EXPRESSION

A. _General Preparation_

Before rendering a selection orally it must be given a setting. This has to do with time, place, objects, sounds, movements, or anything that tends to give local color.

1. Is the selection colloquial or dramatic?

2. Is dialect used?

3. Will personation be necessary?

4. Give an original word-picture of the characters and situation.

5. To what reference to experience does it make?

6. What is the predominant mood?

B. _Special Preparation_

Read the selection aloud for the first time. In doing this, ask yourself:

1. Am I reading with correct thought-groups?

2. Do I make proper use of the pause? (Remember the length and frequency of the pause depends upon the nature of the subject and the audience.)

3. Am I enunciating clearly?

4. Is my voice melodious? That is, do I make proper use of pitch and inflection?

5. Am I conscious of the change and interchange of moods?

6. Do I make proper use of stress and movement?

7. Do my tones fit the color-words?

8. Am I faithfully and adequately interpreting the author’s meaning?

PROSE SELECTIONS

Humorous Pathetic Dramatic Dialect

THE JOY OF READING

Who can estimate the joy, comfort and inspiration reading has afforded to the human race, how many weary hours it has solaced, how many distracted minds it has quieted, how many harassed souls it has soothed into forgetfulness? Who has not felt the thrill of discovery when he has found a new author, a new poet who peculiarly affected his mind, his soul, his risibilities, his ambitions, his life? I shall never forget when I found Charles Warren Stoddard’s “Apostrophe to a Skylark.” It was buried in one of his books and few seemed ever to have read it. There was joy incalculable in putting it side by side with Shelley’s classic “Ode” and comparing the two conceptions. Thousands of souls have been inspired by reading to higher, nobler, more worthy endeavor. So, like Sancho Panza, we bless God and thank Him for the man who invented reading.

—GEORGE WHARTON JAMES.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS

NATHAN FOSTER

BY PAUL L. DUNBAR

Nathan Foster and his lifelong friend and neighbor, Silas Bollender, sat together side by side upon the line-fence that separated their respective domains. They were both whittling away industriously, and there had been a long silence between them. Nathan broke it, saying:

“’Pears to me like I’ve had oncommon good luck this year.”

“Wall, you have had good luck, there ain’t no denyin’ that. It ’pears as though you’ve been ee-specially blest.”

“An’ I know I ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it.”

“No, o’ course not. Don’t take no credit to yourself, Nathan. We don’t none of us deserve our blessings, however we may feel about our crosses; we kin be purty shore o’ that.”

“Now, look, my pertater vines was like little trees, an’ nary a bug on ’em.”

“An’ you had as good a crop of corn as I’ve ever seen raised in this part of Montgomery county.”

“Yes, an’ I sold it, too, jest before that big drop in the price.”

“After givin’ away all yer turnips you could, you had to feed ’em to the hogs.”

“My fruit trees jest had to be propped up, an’ I’ve got enough perserves in my cellar to last two or three winters, even takin’ into consideration the drain o’ church socials an’ o’ charity.”

“Yore chickens are fat and sassy, not a sign o’ pip on ’em.”

“Look at them cows in the fur pastur. Did yer ever see anything to beat ’em fer sleekness?”

“Wall, look at the pasture itself; it’s most enough to make human beings envy the critters. You didn’t have a drop of rain on yer while you was gettin’ in yer hay, did yer?”

“Not a drop.”

“An’ I had a whole lot ruined jest as I was about to rick it.”

“Silas, sich luck as I’m a-havin’ is achilly skeery; it don’t seem right.”

“No, it don’t seem right for a religious man like you, Nathan. Ef you was a hard an’ graspin’ Sinner, it ’ud be jest makin’ you top-heavy so’s yore fall ’ud be the greater.”

“I don’t know but what that’s it, anyhow. Mebbe I’m a-gettin’ puffed up over my goods without exactly knowin’ it.”

“Mebbe so, mebbe so. Them kind o’ feelin’s is mighty sneakin’ comin’ on a body. O’ course I ain’t seen no signs of it in you; but it ’pears to me you’ll have to mortify yore flesh yit to keep from being purse-proud.”

“Mortify the flesh?”

“O’ course, you can’t put peas in yore shoes er get any of yer frien’s to lash you, so you’ll have to find some other way of mortifyin’ yer flesh. Wall, fer my part, I don’t need to look fur none, fur I never had too many blessin’s in my life, less’n you’d want to put the children under that head.”

Silas shut his jack-knife with a snap and, laughing, slid down on his side of the fence. In serious silence Nathan Foster watched him go stumping up the path toward the house.

“Silas seems to take everything so light in this world; I wonder how he can do it.”

With Nathan, now, it was just the other way. Throughout his eight and forty years he had taken every fact of life with ponderous seriousness. Entirely devoid of humor, he was a firm believer in signs, omens, tokens, and judgments. He was a religious man, and his wealth frightened and oppressed him. He gave to his church and gave freely.

As usual, he had taken his friend’s bantering words in hard earnest and was turning them over in his mind.

The next morning when Nathan and Silas met to compare notes, Nathan began:

“I have been thinking over what you said last night, Silas, about me mortifyin’ my flesh, and it seems to me like a good idee. I wrasselled in prayer last night, and it was shown to me that it wa’n’t no more’n right fur me to make some kind o’ sacrifice fur the mercies that’s been bestowed upon me.”

“Wall, I don’t know, Nathan; burnt-offerings are a little out now.”

“I don’t mean nothin’ like that; I mean some sacrifice of myself, some—”

His sentence was broken in upon by a shrill voice that called from Silas Bollender’s kitchen door:

“Si, you’d better be a-gittin’ about yore work instid o’ standin’ over there a-gassin’ all the mornin’. I’m shore I don’t have no time to stand around.”

“All right, Mollie; speakin’ of mortifyin’ the flesh an’ makin’ a sacrifice of yoreself, Nathan, why don’t you git married?”

Nathan started.

“Then you’d be shore to accomplish both. Fur pure mortification of the flesh, I don’t know of nothin’ more thoroughgoin’ er effectiver than a wife. Also she is a vexation to a man’s sperit. You raaly ought to git married, Nathan.”

“Do you think so?”

“It looks to me that that ’ud be about as good a sacrifice as you could make; an’ then it’s such a lastin’ one.”

“I don’t believe you realize what you air a-sayin’, Silas. It’s a mighty desprit step that you’re advisin’ me to take.”

Again Mrs. Bollender’s voice broke in:

“Si, air you goin’ to git anything done this mornin’, er air you goin’ to stand there an’ hold up that fence fur the rest of the day?”

“Nathan, kin you stand here an’ listen to a voice an’ a speech like that an’ then ask me if I realize the despritness of marriage?”

“It’s desprit, but who’d you advise me to marry,—Silas, that is, if I made up my mind to marry,—an’ I don’t jest see any other way.”

“Oh, I ain’t pickin’ out wives fur anybody, but it seems to me that you might be doin’ a good turn by marryin’ the Widder Young. The Lord ’ud have two special reasons fur blessin’ you then; fur you’d be mortifyin’ yore flesh an’ at the same time a-helpin’ the widder an’ her orphans.”

“That’s so.” He couldn’t admit to Silas that he had been thinking hard of the Widow Young even before he had of mortifying his flesh with a wife.

Once decided, it did not take him long to put his plans into execution. But he called Silas over to the fence that evening after he had dressed to pay a visit to the widow.

“Wall, Silas, I’ve determined to take the step you advised.”

“Humph, you made your mind up in a hurry, Nathan.”

“I don’t know as it’s any use a-waiting; ef a thing’s to be done, I think it ought to be done and got through with. What I want particular to know now is, whether it wouldn’t be best to tell Lizzie—I mean the widder—that I want her as a means of mortification.”

“Wall, no, Nathan, I don’t know as I would do that jest yit; I don’t believe it would be best.”

“But if she don’t know, wouldn’t it be obtainin’ her under false pretenses if she said yes?”

“Not exactaly the way I look at it, fur you’ve got more motives fur marryin’ than one.”

“What! Explain yoreself, Silas; explain yoreself.”

“I mean you want to do her good as well as subdue your own sperit.”

“Oh, yes, that’s so.”

“Now, no woman wants to know at first that she’s a vexation to a man’s sperit. It sounds scriptual, but it don’t sound nooptial. Now look at me an’ Mis’ Bollender. I never told her until we’d been married more’n six months; but she didn’t believe it then, an’ she won’t believe it till this day.”

“Wall, I’ll agree not to tell her right away, but if she consents, I must tell her a week or so after we are married. It’ll ease my conscience. Ef I could tell her now, it ’ud be a heap easier in gittin’ round the question. I don’t know jest how to do it without.”

“Oh, you won’t have no trouble in makin’ her understand. Matrimony’s a subject that women air mighty keen on. They can see if a man’s a-poppin’ the question ef he only half tries. You’ll git through all right.”

Somewhat strengthened, Nathan left his friend and sought the widow’s home. He found her stitching away merrily under the light of a coal-oil lamp with a red shade.

“La, Nathan, who’d a’ expected to see you up here? You’ve got to be such a home body that no one don’t look to see you out of yore own field and garden.”

“I jest thought I’d drop in.”

“Wall, it’s precious kind of you, I’m shore. I was a-feelin’ kind o’ lonesome. The children go to bed with the chickens.”

“I jest thought I’d drop in.”

“Wall, it does remind me of old times to see you jest droppin’ in, informal like, this way. My, how time does fly!”

“Widder, I’ve been thinkin’ a good deal lately; I’ve been greatly prospered in my day; in fact, my cup runneth over.”

“You have been prospered, Nathan.”

“Seems ’s ef—seems ’s ef I ought to sheer it with somebody, don’t it?”

“Wall, Nathan, I don’t know nobody that’s more generous in givin’ to the pore than you air.”

“I don’t mean in jest exactly that way. I mean, widder—you’re the morti—I mean the salvation of my soul. Could you—would you—er do you think you’d keer to sheer my blessin’s with me an’ add another one to ’em?”

The Widow Young looked at him in astonishment; then the tears filled her eyes as she asked, “Nathan, do you mean it?”

“I wouldn’t a-spent so much trouble on a joke, widder.”

“No, it don’t seem that you would, Nathan. Well, it’s mighty sudden, mighty sudden, but I can’t say no.”

“Fur these an’ many other blessin’s make us truly thankful, O Lord,” said Nathan devoutly. And he sat another hour with the widow making plans for the early marriage, on which he insisted.

The widow had been settled in Nathan’s home over a month before he had ever thought of telling her of the real motive of his marriage, and every day from the time it occurred to him it grew harder for him to do it.

One night when he had been particularly troubled he sought his friend and counselor with a clouded brow. They sat together in their accustomed place on the fence.

“I’m bothered, Silas.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Why, there’s several things. First off, I ain’t never told the widder that she was a mortification, an’ next she ain’t. I look around at that old house o’ mine that ain’t been a home since mother used to scour the hearth, an’ it makes me feel like singin’ fer joy. An’ I hear them children playin’ round me—they’re the beatenest children; that youngest one called me daddy yistiddy—well, I see ’em playin’ round and my eyes air opened, an’ I see that the widder’s jest another blessin’ added to the rest. It looks to me like I had tried to beat the Almighty.”

“Wall, now, Nathan, I don’t know that you’ve got any cause to feel bothered. You’ve done yore duty. If you’ve tried to mortify yore flesh an’ it refused to mortify, why, that’s all you could do, an’ I believe the Lord’ll take the will fer the deed an’ credit you accordin’ly.”

“Mebbe so, Silas, mebbe so.”

—Copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.

DOING A WOMAN’S WORK

BY MCKILLIP-STANWOOD

“Breakfast ready yet?” asked Jack Telfer, as he set two pails of foaming milk on the bench and turned to wash his hands.

“Almost,” replied his wife. “But, say, Jack, won’t you fix the calf pen while you’re waiting? It won’t take but a minute. The calves got out twice yesterday and tramped all over the flower beds and garden. I had an awful time getting them in. I tried to fix it, but I don’t think I did a good job.”

“I can’t stop now. I guess it’s all right. If they get out, why chase them in; you have nothing else to do, and I’ll fix it up right when I get time. I want my breakfast now. I can’t fool around here till noon. I’ve got to cultivate the peaches to-day.”

“I’ve nothing else to do,” repeated his wife, as she dished up the tempting breakfast. “Well, I like that, Jack Telfer. I wish to goodness I hadn’t any more to do than you have.”

“Why, what under the sun have you to do? You have only Toodles and me to look after and this little house to keep. I could do all the work you do with one hand tied behind me and then find time to throw at the birds. You see, I know what I am talking about, for I can cook and do housework as well as any woman.”

“You’ve never displayed any talent in that direction since I’ve known you. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to do a chore around the house. Not that I want a man to do housework, for I don’t; that’s a woman’s business. But when she has every step to take and a dozen things to do at once, a little help occasionally comes mighty handy.”

“Well, the reason I don’t help around here is because there isn’t much to do. The work you have is a snap, my girl, and a mighty soft one, too. Why, my mother had nine children and did all her own work and cooked for harvest hands and threshers and used to help the neighbors out if they got in a pinch.”

“Well, my dear husband, I do not doubt but your mother was a very smart woman. She must have been to have raised so promising a son. But women are not all alike, my dear.”

“Now, your work is a sort of paper-flower work compared with what I have to do. It would be a picnic for me to stay in the house, wash dishes, play with the baby and do such things.”

“All right, suppose you have a picnic to-day. I can drive the cultivator just as well as you and you can cook and keep house a great deal better than I; at least you think you can. I’ll hitch up and cultivate the peaches and you can tie one hand behind you and do the work to-day and see how much time you have to throw at the birds. What do you say?”

“Say,” laughed Mr. Telfer as he pushed back from the table. “Why, I say I’m willing, but if you don’t get enough riding in the hot sun—”

“The hot sun,” interrupted his wife, “is no worse than the hot stove I cook over. Will you do it?”

“You bet I’ll do it, but you must tell me what’s to be done so you can’t throw it up to me for ever after that the reason I got through so soon was because I didn’t do half the work.”

“First,” said Mrs. Telfer, “there’s the milk to skim and the calves to feed and the churning to do. Skim the milk on the north shelf in the cellar; the dishes to wash, and don’t forget to scald the churn and the milk things. Then you can iron; the clothes are all dampened down in the basket. You need not iron any but the plain things, I’ll do the others. Pit the cherries I picked last night and make a pie for dinner. And, oh, yes, you will have to kill a chicken and dress it, for you know you said last night you wanted chicken and dumplings for dinner to-day, and now is your chance.

“Stew some prunes for supper to-night, make the bed, sweep and dust and get the vegetables ready for dinner. Oh, I guess you know about what there is to do. I must be off now, for it is nearly 6 o’clock.” And she was gone.

“Well, it’s early yet; guess I’ll smoke and read the Rural World awhile. There’s an article on hogs I wanted to read; it seems nice to have time to do what you please.”

After he had read a long time he at last knocked the ashes into his hand and stretched lazily.

He went down cellar and skimmed the milk, then he fed the calves, laughed at the way his wife had tried to fix the calf pen, went in and took off the table cloth and piled the dishes and empty milk things on the table.

“Guess I’ll wash up before I churn. No, I won’t, either. I’ll churn first; then I’ll clean up all at once. Oh, I’ve got a head on me. I ought to have been a woman.”

He brought from the cellar a large new pan of thick cream and set it on the table, then he went to scald the churn, but the fire was out and the dish water Mrs. Telfer had put on before breakfast was nearly cold.

“Blame it all, I’ve got to go to the barn for peach pits; not one in the basket. But I’ll kill the chicken while I’m out there and save an extra trip. If Jennie would only use some management about her work she’d have plenty of time.”

The large pit basket was soon filled, but the chicken was another proposition. Every time he selected one to catch it seemed to know it was a marked bird and would shy off to the edge of the flock. At last he had to run one down, and he wrung its neck with a great deal of satisfaction. As he entered the house the clock struck nine.

“Wheu! Where has the morning gone? I must get a move on me. Guess I’ll make the pie first so it can bake while the water is heating.”

He prepared the cherries. Then he made the pie; made it as well as a woman could. He had pushed the dishes back on the cluttered table to make room for his bread-board, and just as he had the crust nicely stamped down around the edge of his pie, with a fork, a tousled head of yellow curls appeared in the doorway, one chubby hand holding up a long, white nighty, the other rubbing a sleepy eye.

There was surprise on the baby face at the sight of his father. Papa meant fun for Toodles, and, running to him, he put up his little arms, saying, “Papa, high me; high Toodles, papa; high Toodles.” And his father, dusting the flour from his hands, tossed the baby to the ceiling again and again while the little fellow screamed with delight.

In the midst of this jolly frolic the clock announced that it was the tenth hour of the day.

“Hear that, young man?” said the father. “That means that we must cut out this racket and get down to business. Your paternal ancestor is chief cook and general manager to-day and has several little chores to do yet. We will get Toodles’ breakfast first, then wash and dress him afterwards so that he won’t get mussed up when he eats.

“Mamma don’t do that way, but we can give mamma a few pointers on keeping a baby clean, can’t we, Toodles?”

And, putting the child in his high-chair, Mr. Telfer pinned a tea towel around the little neck for a bib, took a bowl and went to the cellar for some new milk.

While Toodles was eating breakfast his father washed the prunes and put them on to stew, set the pie in the oven and started to build the fire, but he was interrupted by an emphatic voice saying, “Papa, down; papa, down.”

“All right, young man, I’ll attend to your case directly,” said Jack, touching a match to the kindling. “Guess I’ll wash and dress you and have you off my hands.”

And, taking a wash-pan of tepid water, with soap, comb, rag, towel and Toodles, he went into the sitting-room where it was cool and pleasant. The baby’s clean clothes were lying upon a chair, where his mamma had placed them the night before. Then what a time they had. Toodles would catch the wash rag in his teeth and papa would shake it and growl till the little mouth would have to let loose to scream with the agonizing fun.

Then came the tangled curls, and it took a wonderful story about a doggie that would say “Bow, wow,” and a little horsie that Toodles could ride and a chicky that went “Peep, peep, peep,” and several other mental concoctions to keep the baby quiet until the ringlets were in order.

When the clean coaties were on and two little arms hugged papa tight, Jack Telfer thought, “Jennie calls this work.”

The clock pounded out eleven strokes.

“Blast that clock; what’s got into it,” thought the man, putting the child down and hurrying to the kitchen. “I’ve been busy every minute this morning, and here it is 11 o’clock and not a thing done yet.”

He found the fire had burned out; he had forgotten to put the peach pits on the kindling when he had stopped to fuss with Toodles.

“Well, I guess I’ll make it all right by noon,” he soliloquized. “This is a hurry-up order, but I’ll be on time or eat my hat.”

He looked at his pie; it was nearly half baked. He built a roaring fire, packed the stove with peach pits, pulled the prunes to the front where they would cook quicker, and was debating in his mind which he should scald first, the churn or the chicken, when something rushed by the door.

“Drat those calves; they’re out again.”

Snatching his hat, he hurried after them. It was a merry chase for the calves if not for Mr. Telfer. They were willing to go in any direction but the right one, and by the time he got them corralled Jack was hot, tired and cross.

When Toodles was left alone he started out on a tour of inspection. The first objects of interest were the dead chicken and the peach-pit basket, but his attention was soon detracted from these by the bright pan that held the cream; it had been pushed to the edge of the table. As Toodles approached it he saw the reflection of a chubby baby face on the outside.

“Baby,” said Toodles. He smiled and the pan baby smiled, and he concluded that the pan must be full of pretty, smiling babies, and he wanted them to play with. He could just get his little fingers over the edge of the pan. He pulled and tugged with all his might to get the pan baby down.

He succeeded, for the pan toppled over and deluged the immaculate Toodles with thick, yellow cream. His pretty curls were filled with chunks of oily coagulation, and cream ran in rivulets down his little back and bosom.

He seated himself in the middle of it and paddled and spattered in great glee.

The calf pen took longer to fix than Jack had expected, and as he neared the house he heard the clock striking twelve, and, looking fieldward, he saw his wife coming to dinner.

“Jumping Jupiter! what will she say?” was his mental comment. “But she will soon fix things, I’ll bet.”

As he entered the kitchen what a sight met his gaze. The room was dark with smoke from burned prunes, the table piled full of unwashed pans and dishes. The cream. Heavens, the cream! The dead chicken lay in the middle of the floor and the pit-basket was upset, as Toodles had left it for the pan baby. The open-mouthed churn stared at him.

Mr. Telfer opened the oven door; his pie was a black mass.

“I can see now why women sit down and cry sometimes. I’m blessed if I don’t feel like it myself,” he said.

Toodles, drenched but happy, called from the middle of his cream puddle, “High me, papa; high me.”

Mrs. Telfer called out as she passed the house: “Hello! Dinner ready? I’m awful hungry.” But her husband was not visible.

She had enjoyed her morning’s work and was in excellent spirits. She watered and fed the team, then started for the house. The novelty of the situation amused her. She expected Jack would have some surprise ready, some extra dish for dinner, the table decorated with flowers or, perhaps, be tricked out in one of her white aprons with his hair curled and a pink ribbon around his neck to show how a wife should greet her husband.

He was such a wag it was impossible to tell what he might do. As she entered the house she stood dumb with amazement. Her eyes took in the situation. The breakfast dishes, the burned pie, the creamy Toodles, the dead chicken, the littered sitting-room with the remains of Toodles’ toilet and the distracted-looking man.

“How soon will dinner be ready?” she asked. But her husband did not answer; he was busy picking up peach pits. “I’ve got to get back to work as soon as I can,” she continued.

Crossing the room, she took up a paper and went outside and sat down in the shade to read.

Toodles, greasy and dripping, trotted after.

“Oh, baby, go to papa and get cleaned up. Go tell papa to clean baby up, darling,” said his mother. And the little fellow hurried into the house, saying: “Keen baby up, papa; keen baby up.”

Poor Jack, he had lost out. He was hopelessly balled up. He was mad. He had felt somehow that his troubles were over when he saw his wife coming, but when she took the paper and sat down to read, leaving him in that awful muss, the iron entered his soul.

Yet he knew that was exactly the way he did, and only yesterday when she asked him to get a pitcher of fresh water for dinner he had said:

“It’s a pity a man can’t get a moment to rest without having to chore around the house.”

“Keen baby up, papa; keen baby up!” reiterated Toodles. Jack looked down at the greasy, smeary child with its cream-matted curls and capitulated.

“Say, Jennie,” he called, “I’ll give up. I know when I’m worsted. It’s my treat. If you’ll come in here and help me out of this mix-up you can name your own price and I’ll pay it. I’ve worked all the morning and haven’t done a blamed thing but get all balled up. I never would have believed a woman had so much to do if I hadn’t tried it. I am dead sore at the whole deal.”

“Why, Jack,” laughed his wife, as she came to his assistance, “you don’t seem to like paper-flower work. I guess you forgot to tie one hand behind you and so used both to throw time at the birds.”

“Now see here, Jennie, don’t strike a man when he’s down. I’ll admit that I’m not nearly so smart as I thought I was this morning, but how things ever got in this shape I can’t tell,” said Jack with a grim smile.

Together they soon brought order out of chaos, and as they sat eating their picked-up dinner Jack said:

“If it is all the same to you, Jennie, I’ll finish the orchard this afternoon.”—_The Los Angeles Times._

A BAD NIGHT

BY J. ROSS BROWNE

I gradually dropped off into a doze, a mere doze, for I scorn the charge of having slept a wink that night. The grating of the grindstones, the everlasting clatter of tongues, the dust, the chaff, smoke, and fleas, to say nothing of the roar of the water down below, were enough to banish all hope of sleep; I merely closed my eyes to try how ridiculous it would feel. How long they remained closed I scarcely know; it was not long, however, for I soon heard a heavy breathing close by my head, and felt the warm breath of some monster on my face. I knew it to be no Arab; it blew and snuffed altogether unlike anything of the human kind. Thinking it might be all fancy, I cautiously put out my hand in the dark and began to feel around me. For some moments I could discover nothing, but in waving my hand around I at length touched something—something that sent the blood flying back to my heart a good deal quicker than it ever flew before. To tell the honest truth, I never was so startled in all the previous adventures of my life. The substance that I put my hand on was bare and warm; it was wet also and slimy, and had large nostrils which seemed to be in the act of smelling me, previous to the act of mastication. With the quickness of lightning I jerked up my hand, and felt it glide along a skin covered with long rough hair; the next instant my ears were stunned by the most dreadful noises, which resembled, as I thought in the horror of the moment, the roaring of a full-grown lion. But it was not the roaring of a lion; it was only the braying of an ass.—From _The Mill of Malaha_.

AN UNTHANKFUL ORPHAN

BY KATE LANGLEY BOSHER

My name is Mary Cary. I live in the Yorkburg Female Orphan Asylum. You may think nothing happens in an Orphan Asylum. It does. The orphans are sure enough children, and real, much like the kind that have Mothers and Fathers; but though they don’t give parties or wear truly Paris clothes, things happen.

To-day I was kept in. Yesterday, too. I don’t mind, for I would rather watch the lightning up here than be down in the basement with the others. There are days when I love thunder and lightning. I can’t flash and crash, being just Mary Cary; but I’d like to, and when it is done for me it is a relief to my feelings.

The reason I was kept in was this: Yesterday Mr. Gaffney, the one with a sunk eye and cold in his head perpetual, came to talk to us for the benefit of our characters. He thinks it’s his duty, and, just naturally loving to talk, he wears us out once a week anyhow. Yesterday, not agreeing with what he said, I wouldn’t pretend I did, and I was punished prompt, of course.

I don’t care for duty-doers, and I tried not to listen to him; but tiresome talk is hard not to hear—it makes you so mad. Hear him I did, and when, after he had ambled on until I thought he really was castor-oil and I had swallowed him, he blew his nose and said:

“You have much, my children, to be thankful for, and for everything you should be thankful. Are you? If so, stand up. Rise, and stand upon your feet.”

I didn’t rise. All the others did—stood on their feet, just like he asked. None tried their heads. I was the only one that sat, and when his good eye stared at me in such astonishment, I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it, I truly couldn’t.

I’m not thankful for everything, and that’s why I didn’t stand up. Can you be thankful for toothache, or stomachache, or any kind of ache? You cannot. And not meant to be, either.

The room got awful still, and then presently he said:

“Mary Cary”—his voice was worse than his eye—“Mary Cary, do you mean to say you have not a thankful heart?” And he pointed his finger at me like I was the Jezebel lady come to life.

I didn’t answer, thinking it safer, and he asked again:

“Do I understand, Mary Cary”—and by this time he was real red-in-the-face mad—“do I understand you are not thankful for all that comes to you? Do I understand aright?”

“Yes, sir, you understand right,” I said, getting up this time. “I am not thankful for everything in my life. I’d be much thankfuller to have a Mother and Father on earth than to have them in heaven. And there are a great many other things I would like different.” And down I sat, and was kept in for telling the truth.

Miss Bray says it was for impertinence (Miss Bray is the Head Chief of this Institution), but I didn’t mean to be impertinent. I truly didn’t. Speaking facts is apt to make trouble, though—also writing them. To-day Miss Bray kept me in for putting something on the blackboard I forgot to rub out. I wrote it just for my own relief, not thinking about anybody else seeing it. What I wrote was this:

“Some people are crazy all the time; All people are crazy sometimes.”

That’s why I’m up in the punishment-room to-day, and it only proves that what I wrote is right. It’s crazy to let people know you know how queer they are. Miss Bray takes personal everything I do, and when she saw that blackboard, up-stairs she ordered me at once. She loves to punish me, and it’s a pleasure I give her often.

She thinks she could run this earth better than it’s being done, and she walks around like she is the Superintendent of most of it.

But she’s taught me a good deal about Human Nature, Miss Bray has. About the side I didn’t know. I think I will make a special study of Human Nature. I thought once I’d take up Botany in particular, as I love flowers; or Astronomy, so as to find out all about those million worlds in the sky, so superior to earth, and so much larger; but I think, now, I’ll settle on Human Nature. Nobody ever knows what it is going to do, which makes it full of surprises, but there’s a lot that’s real interesting about it. I like it. As for its Bray side, I’ll try not to think about it; but if there are puddles, I guess it’s well to know where, so as not to step in them. I wish we didn’t have to know about puddles and things! I’d so much rather know little and be happy than find out the miserable much some people do. God is going to have a hard time with Miss Bray. She’s right old to change, and she’s set in her ways—bad ways.

Did you know I wrote poetry? Umhm. I do. Last week I wrote one. This is it:

“In the winter, by the fireside, when the snow falls soft and white, I am waiting, hoping, longing, but for what I don’t know quite. And when summer’s sunshine shimmers, and the birds sing clear and sweet, I am waiting, always waiting, for the joy I hope to meet.

“It will be, I think, my husband, and the home he’ll make for me; But of his coming or home-making, I as yet no signs do see. But I still shall keep on waiting, for I know it’s true as fate, When you really, truly hustle, things will come if just you’ll wait.”

Miss Bray was to get married. When I grow up I am going to marry a million-dollar man, so I can travel around the world and have a house in Paris with twenty bathrooms in it. And I’m going to have horses and automobiles and a private car and balloons, if they are working all right by that time. I hope they will be, for I want something in which I can soar up and sit and look down on other people.

All my life people have looked down on me, passing me by like I was a Juny bug or a caterpillar, and I don’t wonder. I’m merely Mary Cary with fifty-eight more just like me. Blue calico, white dots for winter, white calico, blue dots for summer. Black sailor hats and white sailor hats with blue capes for cold weather, and no fire to dress by, and freezing fingers when it’s cold, and no ice-water when it’s hot.

Yes, I am going to marry a rich man. I will try to love him, but if I can’t I will be polite to him and travel alone as much as possible. But I am going to be rich some day, I am. And when I come back to Yorkburg eyes will bulge, for the clothes I am going to wear will make mouths water, they’re going to be so grand.

It seems like every time Miss Katherine goes away from the ’Sylum I’d be bad. Last time she hadn’t been gone two days till I’d invented more trouble. It was this way: In the summer we have much more time than in the winter, and the children kept coming to me asking me to make up something, and all of a sudden a play came in my mind. I just love

## acting. The play was to be the marriage of Dr. Rudd and Miss Bray.

You see, Miss Bray is dead in love with Dr. Rudd—really addled about him. And whenever he comes to see any of the children who are sick she is so solitious and sweet and smiley that we call her, to ourselves, Ipecac Mollie. Other days, plain Mollie Cottontail. It seemed to me if we could just think him into marrying her, it would be the best work we’d ever done, and I thought it was worth trying.

They say if you just think and think and think about a thing you can make somebody else think about it, too. And not liking Dr. Rudd, we didn’t mind thinking her on him, and so we began. Every day we’d meet for an hour and think together, and each one promised to think single, and in between times we got ready.

Becky Drake says love goes hard late in life, and sometimes touches the brain. Maybe that accounts for Miss Bray.

She is fifty-three years old, and all frazzled out and done up with adjuncts. But Dr. Rudd, being a man with not even usual sense, and awful conceited, don’t see what we see, and swallows easy. Men are funny—funny as some women.

I don’t think he’s ever thought of courting Miss Bray. But she’s thought of it, and for once we tried to help her, and the play was a corker; it certainly was. We chose Friday night because Miss Jones always takes tea with her aunt that night, and Miss Bray goes to choir practicing. I wish everybody could hear her sing! Gabriel ought to engage her to wake the dead—only they’d want to die again.

Dr. Rudd is in the choir, and she just lives on having Friday nights to look forward to.

The ceremony took place in the basement-room where we play in bad weather. It’s across from the dining-room, the kitchen being between, and it’s a right nice place to march in, being long and narrow.

I was the preacher, and Prudence Arch and Nita Polley, Emma Clark and Margaret Witherspoon were the bridesmaids.

Lizzie Wyatt was the bride, and Katie Freeman, who is the tallest girl in the house, though only fourteen, was the groom.

Katie is so thin she would do as well for one thing in this life as another, so we made her Dr. Rudd.

We didn’t have but two men. Miss Webb says they’re really not necessary at weddings, except the groom and minister. Nobody notices them, and, besides, we couldn’t get the pants.

I was an Episcopal minister, so I wouldn’t need any.

If anybody thinks that wedding was slumpy, they think wrong. It was thrilly. When the bride and groom and the bridesmaids came in, all the girls were standing in rows on either side of the walls, making an aisle in between, and they sang a wedding-song I had invented from my heart.

It was to the Lohengrin tune, which is a little wobbly for words, but they got them in all right, keeping time with their hands. These are the words:

Here comes the bride, God save the groom! And please don’t let any chil-i-il-dren come, For they don’t know How children feel, Nor do they know how with children to deal.

She’s still an old maid, Though she would not have been Could she have mar-ri-ed any kind of man. But she could not. So to the Humane She came, and caus-ed a good deal of pain.

But now she’s here To be married, and go Away with her red-headed, red-bearded beau. Have mercy, Lord, And help him to bear What we’ve been doing this many a year!

And such singing! We’d been practicing in the back part of the yard, and humming in bed, so as to get the words into the tune; but we hadn’t let out until that night. That night we let go.

There’s nothing like singing from your heart, and, though I was the minister and stood on a box which was shaky, I sang too. I led.

The bride didn’t think it was modest to hold up her head, and she was the only silent one. But the bridegroom and bridesmaids sang, and it sounded like the revivals at the Methodist church. It was grand.

And that bride! She was Miss Bray. A graven image of her couldn’t have been more like her.

She was stuffed in the right places, and her hair was frizzled just like Miss Bray’s. Frizzled in front, and slick and tight in the back; and her face was a purple pink, and powdered all over, with a piece of dough just above her mouth on the left side to correspond with Miss Bray’s mole.

And she held herself so like her, shoulders back, and making that little nervous sniffle with her nose, like Miss Bray makes when she’s excited, that once I had to wink at her to stop.

The groom didn’t look like Dr. Rudd. But she wore men’s clothes, and that’s the only way you’d know some men were men, and almost anything will do for a groom. Nobody noticed him.

We were getting on just grand, and I was marrying away, telling them what they must do and what they mustn’t do. Particularly that they mustn’t get mad and leave each other, for Yorkburg was very old-fashioned and didn’t like changes, and would rather stick to its mistakes than go back on its word. And then I turned to the bride.

“Miss Bray,” I said, “have you told this man you are marrying that you are two-faced and underhand, and can’t be trusted to tell the truth? Have you told him that nobody loves you, and that for years you have tried to pass for a lamb, when you are an old sheep? And does he know that though you’re a good manager on little and are not lazy, that your temper’s been ruined by economizing, and that at times, if you were dead, there’d be no place for you? Peter wouldn’t pass you, and the devil wouldn’t stand you. And does he know he’s buying a pig in a bag, and that the best wedding present he could give you would be a set of new teeth? And will you promise to stop pink powder and clean your finger-nails every day? And—”

But I got no further, for something made me look up, and there, standing in the door, was the real Miss Bray.

All I said was—“Let us pray!”—Abridged from “Mary Cary,” copyrighted by _The Century Company_, New York, and used by the kind consent of author and publisher.

A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY

BY MYRA KELLY

It was the week before Christmas, and the First-Reader Class had, almost to a man, decided on the gifts to be lavished on “Teacher.” But Morris Mogilewsky, whose love for Teacher was far greater than the combined loves of all the other children, had as yet no present to bestow. The knowledge saddened all his hours and was the more maddening because it could in no wise be shared by Teacher, who noticed his altered bearing and tried with all sorts of artful beguilements to make him happy and at ease. But her efforts served only to increase his unhappiness and his love. And he loved her! Oh, how he loved her! Since first his dreading eyes had clung for a breath’s space to her “like man’s shoes” and had then crept timidly up to her “light face,” she had been mistress of his heart of hearts. That was more than three months ago. And well he remembered the day!

His mother had washed him horribly, and had taken him into the big, red schoolhouse, so familiar from the outside, but so full of unknown terrors within.

He was then dragged through long halls and up tall stairs by a large boy, who spoke to him disdainfully as “greenie,” so that his spirit was quite broken and his nerves were all unstrung when he was pushed into a room full of bright sunshine and of children who laughed at his frightened little face. The sunshine smote his timid eyes, the laughter smote his timid heart, and he turned to flee. But the door was shut, the large boy gone, and despair took him for its own.

Down upon the floor he dropped, and wailed, and wept, and kicked. It was then that he heard, for the first time, the voice which now he loved.

“Why, my dear little chap, you mustn’t cry like that. What’s the matter?”

The hand was gentle and the question kind, and these, combined with a faint perfume suggestive of drug-stores and barber-shops—but nicer than either—made him uncover his hot little face. Kneeling beside him was a lady, and he forced his eyes to that perilous ascent; from shoes to skirt, from skirt to jumper, from jumper to face, they trailed in dread uncertainty, but at the face they stopped. They had found—rest.

Morris allowed himself to be gathered into the lady’s arms, and held upon her knee, and when his sobs no longer rent the very foundations of his pink and wide-spread tie, he answered her question in a voice as soft as his eyes, and as gently sad.

“I ain’t so big, and I don’t know where is my mamma.”

Thereafter he had been the first to arrive every morning, and the last to leave every afternoon; and under the care of Teacher, his liege lady, he had grown in wisdom and love and happiness. But the greatest of these was love. And now, when the other boys and girls were planning surprises and gifts of price for Teacher, his hands were as empty as his heart was full. Appeal to his mother met with denial prompt and energetic.

“For what you go und make, over Christmas, presents?”

“All the other fellows buys her presents, und I’m loving mit her too; it’s polite I gives her presents the while I’m got such a kind feeling over her,” said Morris stoutly.

“Well, we ain’t got no money for buy nothings,” said Mrs. Mogilewsky sadly. “No money, und your papa, he has all times a scare he shouldn’t to get no more.”

So Morris was helpless, his mother poor, and Teacher all unknowing.

And now the great day, the Friday before Christmas, came, and the school was, for the first half-hour, quite mad. Room 18, generally so placid and so peaceful, was a howling wilderness full of brightly colored, quickly changing groups of children, all whispering, all gurgling, and all hiding queer bundles.

Isidore Belchatosky was the first to lay tribute before Teacher. He came forward with a sweet smile and a tall candlestick, and Teacher, for a moment, could not be made to understand that all that length of bluish-white china was really hers “for keeps.”

“It’s to-morrow holiday,” Isidore assured her; “and we gives you presents, the while we have a kind feeling. Candlesticks could to cost twenty-five cents.”

“It’s a lie! three for ten,” said a voice in the background; but Teacher hastened to respond to Isidore’s test of her credulity.

“Indeed, they could. This candlestick could have cost fifty cents, and it’s just what I want. It is very good of you to bring me a present.”

“You’re welcome,” said Isidore, retiring.

And then, the ice being broken, the First-Reader Class in a body rose to cast its gifts on Teacher’s desk, and its arms around Teacher’s neck.

Nathan Horowitz presented a small cup and saucer; Isidore Applebaum bestowed a large calendar for the year before last; Sadie Gonorowsky brought a basket containing a bottle of perfume, a thimble, and a bright silk handkerchief; Sarah Schrodsky offered a pen-wiper and a yellow celluloid collarbutton, and Eva Kidansky gave an elaborate nasal douche, under the pleasing delusion that it was an atomizer.

Jacob Spitsky pressed forward with a tortoise-shell comb of terrifying aspect and hungry teeth, and an air showing forth a determination to adjust it in its destined place. Teacher meekly bowed her head; Jacob forced his offering into her long-suffering hair, and then retired with the information “Costs fifteen cents, Teacher.”

Meanwhile the rush of presentation went steadily on. Cups and saucers came in wild profusion. The desk was covered with them. The soap, too, became urgently perceptible. It was of all sizes, shapes and colors, but of uniform and dreadful power of perfume. Teacher’s eyes filled with tears—of gratitude—as each new piece or box was pressed against her nose, and Teacher’s mind was full of wonder as to what she could ever do with it all. Bottles of perfume vied with one another and with the all-pervading soap, until the air was heavy and breathing grew laborious. But pride swelled the hearts of the assembled multitude. No other Teacher had so many helps to the toilet. None other was so beloved.

When the wastepaper basket had been twice filled with wrappings and twice emptied; when order was emerging out of chaos; when the Christmas-tree had been disclosed and its treasures distributed, a timid hand was laid on Teacher’s knee and a plaintive voice whispered, “Say, Teacher, I got something for you”; and Teacher turned quickly to see Morris, her dearest boy charge.

“Now, Morris dear,” said Teacher, “you shouldn’t have troubled to get me a present; you know you and I are such good friends that—”

“Teacher, yiss, ma’am,” Morris interrupted, in a bewitching and rising inflection of his soft and plaintive voice. “I know you got a kind feeling by me, and I couldn’t to tell even how I got a kind feeling by you. Only it’s about that kind feeling I should give you a present. I didn’t”—with a glance at the crowded desk—“I didn’t to have no soap nor no perfumery, and my mamma she couldn’t to buy none by the store; but, Teacher, I’m got something awful nice for you by present.”

“And what is it, deary?” asked the already rich and gifted young person. “What is my new present?”

“Teacher, it’s like this: I don’t know; I ain’t so big like I could to know”—and, truly, God pity him! he was passing small—“it ain’t for boys—it’s for ladies. Over yesterday on the night comes my papa to my house, und he gives my mamma the present. Sooner she looks on it, sooner she has a awful glad; in her eyes stands tears, und she says, like that—out of Jewish—‘Thanks,’ un’ she kisses my papa a kiss. Und my papa, how he is polite! He says—out of Jewish, too—‘you’re welcome, all right,’ un’ he kisses my mamma a kiss. So my mamma, she sets und looks on the present, und all the time she looks she has a glad over it. Und I didn’t to have no soap, so you could to have the present.”

“But did your mother say I might?”

“Teacher, no, ma’am; she didn’t say like that, und she didn’t to say not like that. She didn’t to know. But it’s for ladies, un’ I didn’t to have no soap. You could to look on it. It ain’t for boys.”

And here Morris opened a hot little hand and disclosed a tightly folded pinkish paper. As Teacher read it he watched her with eager, furtive eyes, dry and bright, until hers grew suddenly moist, when his promptly followed suit. As she looked down at him, he made his moan once more:

“It’s for ladies, and I didn’t to have no soap.”

“But, Morris dear,” cried Teacher, unsteadily, laughing a little, and yet not far from tears, “this is ever so much nicer than soap—a thousand times better than perfume; and you’re quite right, it is for ladies, and I never had one in all my life before. I am so very thankful.”

“You’re welcome, all right. That’s how my papa says; it’s polite. Und my mamma,” he said insinuatingly—“she kisses my papa a kiss.”

“Well?” said Teacher.

“Well,” said Morris, “you ain’t never kissed me a kiss, und I seen how you kissed Eva Gonorowsky. I’m loving mit you too. Why don’t you never kiss me a kiss?”

“Perhaps,” suggested Teacher mischievously, “perhaps it ain’t for boys.”

“Teacher, yiss, ma’am; it’s for boys,” he cried, as he felt her arms about him, and saw that in her eyes, too, “stands tears.”

Late that night Teacher sat in her pretty room and reviewed her treasures. She saw that they were very numerous, very touching, very whimsical, and very precious. But above all the rest she cherished a frayed and pinkish paper, rather crumpled and a little soiled. For it held the love of a man and a woman and a little child, and the magic of a home, for Morris Mogilewsky’s Christmas present for ladies was the receipt for a month’s rent for a room on the top floor of a Monroe Street tenement.—From “Little Citizens,” copyrighted by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.

THE CAMP-MEETING AT BLUFF SPRINGS

BY JUSTIN TRUITT BISHOP

Bascom Barnard paused on the kitchen steps, and looked in at the door with suspicion and irritation in his eyes.

“Bakin’ chickens, air ye?” he asked. “Now I’d like to know what ye’re wastin’ chickens fur at this rate? An’ pies an’ lightbread an’ puddin’, well the land, Ma’ Jane, did ye think we was millionaires?”

“I didn’t know but ye’d change your mind about goin’ over to the camp-meetin’ an’ it would help along to have most of the cookin’ for Sunday done at home,” she said humbly.

“It does seem to me, Ma’ Jane, that it takes more talkin’ to convince you of anything, than any other seventeen women I ever have saw. I’ve tol’ you every day for the last week that we warn’t goin’ to that dratted camp-meetin’—that we couldn’t both leave, and I was bound to go over to the corners and see Bink Denny about that land—that a woman’s business was at home, stid of gallivantin’ ’round the country ’tendin’ camp-meetin’s; cain’t you ever learn anything, Ma’ Jane?”

Ma’ Jane shut the oven door and stood up; she wiped the perspiration from her face with a checked apron.

“I’ve been hopin’ for years that they’d have a camp-meetin’ near enough for me to go. I’ve not ’tended since I was a girl. Mother always had a tent an’ you was glad enough to come to camp-meetin’ then, Bascom, an’ this one’s not more’n six miles away—an’ I want to go.”

“Well, you know good an’ well you cain’t. Somebody’s got to stay on this place to take keer o’ things—an’ since it cain’t be me, it’s got to be you.”

“Mary Hopkins tol’ me she’d save one end of her tent for me; it’s built o’ boards—two rooms and a hall between—an’ there’s a big shed at the back for a dining-room, an’ I wanted to go worse’n I ever wanted to go anywheres, I guess.”

“Fur’s that’s concerned, I reckon I wanted to go, but you don’t see me throwin’ our livin’ away so’s I could gallop off to every camp-meetin’ that comes along, do ye?

“I won’t be back for three days,” he stated, as he went away. In deep silence Ma’ Jane sat down and looked at the kitchen table. It was heaped with the good things she had prepared for the great Sunday dinner at the camp-ground, where it was the joy of every tenter to keep open house and entertain all who would come.

True, Bascom had said all along that they could not go, yet she had gone on cooking and planning. She had even packed most of the things which she would need for housekeeping in the other end of Mary Hopkins’s tent.

Ma’ Jane went out to the barn and looked at the cows, which were ready to eat again, having been fed fully an hour before.

“Drat ye,” said she vindictively. Coming from Ma’ Jane, this might have been considered mild profanity.

Her heart stood still for a moment, then she wept remorsefully on the outstretched nose of the nearest cow. “It’s about time I was goin’ to camp-meetin’,” she said. “If I ain’t gettin’ to be a heathen, I dunno who is.”

As she slowly walked out of the barn, the two cows followed her, and it was at the barn-door that an inspiration came to Ma’ Jane Barnard.

Her face paled a moment, and then flushed crimson. She put her hand to her throat—“them cows lead like dogs,” she whispered.

Bascom Barnard’s work at the corners was over in less time than he had contemplated. In fact, he met Bink Denny coming out of the “First and Last Chance” in such a state of intoxication that Bascom was glad to tear himself away and set forth on the homeward road.

He went slowly and sorrowfully, because if he went home, Ma’ Jane would insist on going to camp-meeting and he would be left alone over Sunday. The few times when he had been left to look after the house had been brief but memorable. Of course, it was no trouble for Ma’ Jane to run the place. She was already reconciled to the staying at home now, anyway, and did not expect to go to the camp-meeting.

Bascom was silent on his way home—only two or three miles off the road—and he really felt that it would do him good to see what a camp-meeting was like once more. He felt that he might finish up the day there at any rate, and then go home and give Ma’ Jane a chance; or he might stay over Sunday at the camp-grounds, and then go back to the corners, find Bink Denny sober, and transact his business according to the first arrangement.

Bascom Barnard turned into the road that led to Bluff Springs. The sound of hammering and sawing, and the merry clatter of tongues proclaimed the camp-ground before he was in sight of it. He rode into the busy little city where board and canvas tents were going up like magic. Brother Wilkins, the minister, called cheerfully:

“Hello, Brother Barnard, where’s Sister Barnard, ain’t she coming?”

“She kinder thot she wouldn’t come. Ma’ Jane sets a lot o’ store by the cows and things, ye see—so she reckoned she’d stay.”

He rode hurriedly down the line of tents, where a fire of questions met him at every turn.

“I jes couldn’t get Ma’ Jane to come,” he explained to Miss Mirandy Barr. “It don’t suit her to come away and leave things at six’s and seven’s, as she says, so she jes stays by the stuff, Ma’ Jane does.”

Bascom Barnard began helping people to get their tents in order.

Before noon, he told his friends that Ma’ Jane didn’t know what she was missing, and immediately after dinner—chicken-pie and fixin’s—if they thought it would do any good, he would go after Ma’ Jane yet and make her come, whether or no.

Just before the afternoon service, he said it was an awful mistake to have a body’s mind on worldly things.

In the still hours of the night Bascom reasoned it out. He had not treated himself to a holiday this many a year, and now he felt he was entitled to one. Ma’ Jane could take hers some other time; besides, a woman’s work was never wearin’ like a man’s—keepin’ house was like play compared with what he had been called upon to do. He turned over on the fragrant hay mattress, with which Sister Clark had provided him, and went comfortably to sleep.

The clear notes of a horn roused everybody for the sunrise prayer-meeting, and Bascom hurried arbor-wards with the others.

“Will Brother Barnard please lead us in prayer?” said the minister, when the first hymn had been sung. Brother Barnard found himself on his knees stumbling over a few familiar phrases; as he went on he gained confidence and his voice became assured. He remarked upon the fact that our days are few and evil.

After a few similar remarks, he got in full swing—time was no object—scraps of forgotten phrases from prayers heard in his youth tumbled forth in picturesque confusion. The hour for prayer-meeting to close had come when he began to pray for the heathen, and this took time of itself. When he had worked around to the sinful and depraved of our own land, everybody would have been impatient, but for the fact that something had happened—something that Bascom could not see, as his eyes were shut. There were some who kept their eyes open when they prayed; these nudged each other excitedly.

“An’ now, Lord,” pleaded Brother Bascom Barnard, pounding the bench in front of him with a clenched fist, “be with all that’s near and dear to them that’s gathered here to worship Thee. Be with them that’s stayed by the stuff—an’ if they’ve stayed away from this blessed place because they’re cold or hard-hearted—as we fear some of ’em has—O Lord, melt their hearts of stone an’ make ’em see that they’re hangin’ over eternal punishment prepared for the devil and his angels.”

“Amen,” said a clear voice, undeniably feminine, which seemed in some unaccountable way to come from the wrong direction.

Bascom was kneeling in the sawdust near the altar, and facing the congregation. The voice came from behind him. Involuntarily he looked back over his shoulder. At the same moment a faint giggle arose somewhere down among the benches where the congregation was kneeling.

An old horse and wagon had drawn up close at the edge of the arbor, and Ma’ Jane, her best bonnet tied under her chin, held the reins. The wagon was piled high with a medley of things pertaining to housekeeping. Three coops of excited chickens topped the pile, the anxious mewing of a cat came from a basket behind the seat, and tied to the back of the wagon were two cows, both intimating that something to eat would be quite acceptable. Under the wagon sat the black puppy, its astonished head to one side as it viewed its master under these unaccustomed circumstances.

Every one had arisen and was looking with might and main. The minister hastily pronounced the benediction.

“I’m sorry to move in on Sunday,” explained Ma’ Jane, “but it’s took me all night to get ready an’ to come. My husband couldn’t help me because he was over to the corners, makin’ a trade with Bink Denny. I warn’t goin’ to stay at home tendin’ the cows and things while camp-meetin’ was goin’ on only six miles away, so I brung ’em all along. ’Long as Bascom’s not here, if some of you would help me unload at Mary Hopkins’s tent, I’d be thankful, an’ you’ll take dinner with me to-day, Brother Wilkins—an’ as many more as can crowd in.”

That dinner in the other end of Mary Hopkins’s tent, was a thing long to be remembered. Bascom crept meekly in after awhile and offered himself at least as a guest. But Ma’ Jane remarked dryly, “My husband not bein’ here, I reckon I can’t take you in—I ain’t makin’ no new acquaintances.” He went away and ate with Miss Mirandy Barr, who had corn-beef and cold potatoes for dinner. Somehow everything was different.

The minister’s sermon on hypocrisy that afternoon was something terrible to hear, and sounded personal to the last degree. Another meal at Miss Mirandy Barr’s with a night on a pallet at Sister Clark’s prepared Bascom to enter upon another day with a chastened spirit, but there was no relenting on the part of Ma’ Jane. Between sermons he heard goodly sounds of cooking at her tent and, wandering near, smelled such odors as tore his very being asunder. But he was an outcast there, and might not hope to enter. He listened to the sermons in gloomy silence; his voice was not raised in the hymns.

But when the long day had worn itself out, and the night service was going on, he sat looking around on the scene from which it seemed that he was all at once shut out.

Over there in the brightest light he saw Ma’ Jane, her face lifted, her hands clasped in her lap. He saw how gray she was getting and how shabby. That best bonnet of hers had been bought fifteen years before, and she had washed the ribbon and retrimmed it many times. While he looked he saw the tears on her face too. The hands she raised to wipe them were rough and hard; how she must have worked!

The minister had turned towards him and looked into his eyes. What he saw there decided him—“Will Brother Bascom Barnard lead us in prayer?” And Brother Bascom Barnard fell on his knees, shaken with sobs.

“The Lord forgive us for bein’ miserable fools,” he cried, “an’ give us a chance to try again an’ see if we can’t do better next time, Amen!” It was a very complete prayer; after it was over Bascom found a hand on his arm, and there was Ma’ Jane looking up at him.

“I’ve got some chicken-pie saved up for you, Bascom,” she whispered. And they went away toward the tent, arm in arm, walking where the shadows of the trees lay thickest. “It looks like we’re goin’ to have a great meetin’,” he said, stumbling. “I’m awful glad you got a chance to come, Ma’ Jane.”

THE CATACOMBS OF PALERMO

J. ROSS BROWNE

Chief among the wonders of Palermo are the Catacombs of the Capuchin Convent, near to Porta d’Ossuna. It is said to be a place of great antiquity; many of the bodies have been preserved in it for centuries, and still retain much of their original freshness. Entering the ancient and ruinous court of the convent, distant about a mile from the city, I was conducted by a ghostly-looking monk through some dark passages to the subterranean apartments of the dead. It was not my first visit to a place of this kind, but I must confess the sight was rather startling. It was like a revel of the dead—a horrible, grinning, ghastly exhibition of skeleton forms, sightless eyes, and shining teeth, jaws distended, and bony hands outstretched; heads without bodies, and bodies without heads—the young, the old, the brave, the once beautiful and gay, all mingled in the ghastly throng. I walked through long subterranean passages, lined with the dead on both sides; with a stealthy and measured tread I stepped, for they seemed to stare at the intrusion, and their skeleton fingers vibrated as if yearning to grasp the living in their embrace. Long rows of upright niches are cut into the walls on each side; in every niche a skeleton form stands erect as in life, habited in a robe of black; the face, hands, and feet naked, withered, and of an ashy hue; the grizzled beards still hanging in tufts from the jaws, but matted and dry. To each corpse is attached a label upon which is written the name and the date of decease, and a cross or the image of the Saviour....

Who was the prince here? Who was the great man, or the proud man, or the rich man? The musty, grinning, ghastly skeleton in the corner seemed to chuckle at the thought, and say to himself, “Was it you, there on the right, you ugly, noseless, sightless, disgusting thing? Was it you that rode in your fine carriage, about a year ago, and thought yourself so great when you ordered your coachman to drive over the beggar? Don’t you see he is as handsome as you are now, and as great a man; you can’t cut him down now, my fine fellow! And you, there on the left. What a nice figure you are, with your fleshless shanks and your worm-eaten lips! It was you that betrayed youth and beauty and innocence, and brought yourself here at last to keep company with such wretches as I am. Why, there is not a living thing now, save the maggots, that wouldn’t turn away in disgust from you. And you, sir, on the opposite side, how proud you were the last time I saw you; an officer of state, a great man in power, who could crush all below you, and make the happy wife a widowed mourner, and bring her little babes to starvation; it was you who had innocent men seized and thrown into prison. What can you do now? The meanest wretch that mocks you in this vault of death is as good as you, as strong, as great, as tall, as broad, as pretty a piece of mortality, and a great deal nearer to heaven. Oh, you are a nice set of fellows, all mixing together without ceremony! Where are your rules of etiquette now; your fashionable ranks, and your plebeian ranks; your thousands of admiring friends, your throngs of jeweled visitors? Why, the lowliest of us has as many visitors here, and as many honest tears shed as you. Ha! Ha! This is a jolly place, after all; we are all a jolly set of republicans, and old Death is our President.”—From “Yusef, or the Journey of the Frangi.” Published by _Harper & Brothers_ and used by their kind permission.

GETTING READY FOR THE TRAIN

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

When they reached the station, Mr. and Mrs. Man gazed in unspeakable disappointment at the receding train which was just pulling away from the station at the rate of about a thousand miles a minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train was out of sight and whistling for the next station before they could act upon this impulse, they remained in the auto and disconsolately turned homeward.

“It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready!”

“I was ready before you were!”

“Great heavens, just listen to that! And I sat out in the car ten minutes yelling for you to come along until the whole neighborhood heard me!”

“Yes, and every time I started down the stairs you sent me back after something you had forgotten.”

Mr. Man groaned. “This is too much to bear when everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush in the house, put on a clean shirt, grab a grip and fly, while you would want at least six months to get ready in and then dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town.”

Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Mans put off their visit to San Diego until the next week, when it was agreed that each one should get himself or herself ready, get down to the train and go. And the one who failed to get ready should be left.

The day of the match came around in due time. The train was to leave at ten-thirty and Mr. Man, after attending to business, came home at nine forty-five.

“Now, then, only three-quarters of an hour until train time. Fly around. A fair field and no favors, you know.”

And away they flew. Mr. Man bulged into this room, and rushed through that, and into one closet after another, with inconceivable chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Man would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on the way upstairs to pull off his heavy boots to save time. For the same reason he pulled off his coat as he ran through the dining-room and hung it on the corner of the silver closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he ran through the hall and tossed it on a hook on the hatrack, and by the time he reached his own room he was ready to plunge into clean clothes. He pulled out a dresser drawer and began to paw among the things like a Scotch terrier after a rat. “Elinor, where are my shirts?”

“In your dresser drawer.”

“Well, but they ain’t. I’ve pulled out every last thing and there isn’t a thing I’ve ever seen before.”

(Laughing.) “These things scattered around on the floor are all mine; perhaps you haven’t been looking in your own drawer.”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t put my things out for me, when you had nothing to do all morning.”

“Because—because, nobody put mine out. A fair field and no favors, my dear.”

Mr. Man plunged into his shirt. “Gad, no buttons on the neck!”

“Because you have it on wrong side out.”

When his head came through the clock struck ten. “Where’s my shirt studs?”

“In the shirt you just pulled off.” Mrs. Man put on her gloves while Mr. Man hunted up and down the room for his cuff buttons.

“Elinor, I believe you must know where those buttons are.”

“I didn’t see them. Didn’t you leave them on the window-sill in the living-room last night?”

Mr. Man remembered, and down the stairs he flew. He stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed at the foot of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmission with more bumps than he could count.

“Are you nearly ready, dear?”

The unhappy man groaned. “Can’t you throw me down my other boot?”

Mrs. Man pitifully kicked it down to him.

“My valise?”

“In your dressing-room.”

“Packed?”

“I do not know; unless you packed it yourself probably not. I had hardly time to pack my own.” She was passing out of the gate when the door opened and he shouted: “Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? It has all my money in it.”

“You threw it on the hatrack; good-by, dear.”

Before she reached the corner of the street she was hailed again.

“Elinor! Elinor Man! Did you wear off my coat?”

She paused after signaling the street car to stop, and cried: “You threw it on the silver-closet,” and the street car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more.

But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Man charging up and down the house, rushing out to the front door every now and then and shrieking up the deserted street after the unconscious Mrs. Man to know where his hat was and where did she put the valise key, and that there wasn’t a linen collar in the house.

And when he went away at last he left the front door, the kitchen door, and side door, all the down-stairs windows and front gate wide open, and the loungers around the station were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, perspiring man with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned, necktie flying, and his grip flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a doorkey in his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impatient, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at the pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car.

“A fair field and no favors, my dear!”

A STARTLING ADVENTURE

BY J. ROSS BROWNE

I descended several of these shafts rather to oblige my friend, the Judge, than to satisfy any curiosity I had on the subject myself. This thing of being dropped down two hundred feet into the bowels of the earth in wooden buckets, and hoisted out by blind horses attached to “whims,” may be very amusing to read about, but I have enjoyed pleasanter modes of locomotion. There was one shaft in particular that left an indelible impression upon my mind—so much so, indeed, that I am astonished every hair in my head is not quite gray. It was in the San Antonia, a mine in which the Judge held an interest in connection with a worthy Norwegian by the name of Jansen. As I had traveled in Norway, Jansen was enthusiastic in his devotion to my enjoyment—declared he would go down with me himself and show me everything worth seeing—even to the lower level just opened. While I was attempting to frame an excuse the honest Norwegian had lighted a couple of candles, given directions to one of the “boys” to look out for the old blind horse attached to the “whim” and now stood ready at the mouth of the shaft to guide me into the subterranean regions.

“Mr. Jansen,” said I, looking with horror at the rickety wooden bucket and the flimsy little rope that was to hold us suspended between the surface of the earth and eternity, “is that rope strong?”

“Well, I think it’s strong enough to hold us,” replied Jansen; “it carries a ton of ore. We don’t weigh a ton, I guess.”

“But the bucket looks fearfully battered. And who can vouch that the old horse won’t run away and let us down by the run?”

“Oh, sir, he’s used to it. That horse never runs. You see, he’s fast asleep now. He sleeps all along on the down turn. It’s the up turn that gets him.”

“Mr. Jansen,” said I, “all that may be true; but suppose the bucket should catch and drop us out?”

“Well, sometimes it catches; but nobody’s been hurt bad yet; one man fell fifteen feet perpendicular. He lit on the top of his head.”

“Wasn’t he killed?”

“No; he was only stunned a little. There was a buzzing about among his brains for a few days after; he’s at work down below now, as well as ever.”

“Mr. Jansen, upon the whole I think I’d rather go down by the ladder, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Certainly, sir, suit yourself; only the ladder’s sort o’ broke in spots, and you’ll find it a tolerably hard climb down; how-so-ever, I’ll go ahead and sing out when I come to bad places.”

With this the Norwegian disappeared. I looked down after him. The shaft was about four feet square; rough, black and dismal, with a small, flickering light, apparently a thousand feet below, making the darkness visible. It was almost perpendicular; the ladders stood against the near side, perched on ledges or hanging together by means of chafed and ragged-looking ropes. I regretted that I had not taken Jansen’s advice and committed myself to the bucket; but it was now too late. With a hurried glance at the bright world around me, a thought of home and unhappy conditions of widows and orphans, as a general thing, I seized the rungs of the ladder and took the irrevocable dive. Down I crept, rung after rung, ladder after ladder, in the black darkness, with the solid walls of rock pressing the air close around me. Sometimes I heard the incoherent muttering of voices below, but could make nothing of them. Perhaps Jansen was warning me of breaks in the ladder; perhaps his voice was split up by the rocks and sounded like many voices; or it might be there were gnomes whisking about in the dark depths below. Down and still down I crept, slower and slower, for I was getting tired, and I fancied there might be poisonous gases in the air. When I had reached the depth of a thousand feet, as it seemed, but about a hundred and forty as it was in reality, the thought occurred to me that I was beginning to get alarmed. In truth I was shaking like a man with the ague. Suppose I should become nervous and lose my hold on the ladder? The very idea was enough to make me shaky. There was an indefinite extent of shaft underneath, black, narrow and scraggy, with a solid base of rock at the bottom. I did not wonder that it caused a buzzing of the brain to fall fifteen feet and light on top of the head. My brain was buzzing already, and I had not fallen yet. But the prospect to that effect was getting better and better every moment, for I was now quite out of breath, and had to stop and cling around the ladder to avoid falling. The longer I stood this way the more certain it became that I should lose my balance and topple over. With a desperate effort I proceeded, step after step, clinging desperately to the frail wood-work as the drowning man clings to a straw, gasping for breath, the cold sweat streaming down my face, and my jaws chattering audibly. The breaks in the ladder were getting fearfully common. Sometimes I found two rungs gone, sometimes six or seven, and then I had to slide down by the sides till my feet found a resting-place on another rung or some casual ledge of rock. To Jansen, or the miners who worked down in the shaft every day, all of this, of course, was mere pastime. They knew every break and resting-place; and besides, familiarity with any particular kind of danger blunts the sense of it. I am confident that I could make the same trip now without experiencing any unpleasant sensation. By good fortune I at length reached the bottom of the shaft, where I found my Norwegian friend and some three or four workmen quietly awaiting my arrival. A bucket of ore, containing some five or six hundred pounds, was ready to be hoisted up. It was very nice-looking ore, and very rich ore, as Jansen assured me; but what did I care about ore till I got the breath back again into my body?

“Stand from under, sir,” said Jansen, dodging into a hole in the rocks; “a chunk of ore might fall out, or the bucket might give way.”

Stand from under? Where in the name of sense was a man to stand in such a hole as this, not more than six or eight feet square at the base, with a few dark chasms in the neighborhood through which it was quite possible to be precipitated into the infernal regions? However, I stood as close to the wall as was possible without backing clean into it. The bucket of ore having gone up out of sight, I was now introduced to the ledge upon which the men were at work. It was about four feet thick, clearly defined, and apparently rich in the precious metals. In some specimens which I took out myself gold was visible to the naked eye. The indications of silver were also well marked. This was at a depth of a hundred and seventy-five feet. At the bottom of this shaft there was a loose flooring of rafters and planks.

“If you like,” said Jansen, “we’ll go down here and take a look at the lower drift. They’ve just struck the ledge about forty feet below.”

“Are the ladders as good as those above, Mr. Jansen?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes, sir; they’re all good; some of the lower ones may be busted a little with the blastin’; but there’s two men down there. Guess they got down somehow.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Jansen, I’m not curious about the lower drift. You can show me some specimens of the ore, and that will be quite satisfactory.”

“Yes, sir, but I’d like you to see the vein where the drift strikes it. It’s really beautiful.”

A beautiful sight down in this region was worth looking at, so I succumbed. Jansen lifted up the planks, told the men to cover us well up as soon as we had disappeared, in order to keep the ore from the upper shaft from tumbling on our heads, and then, diving down, politely requested me to follow. I had barely descended a few steps when the massive rafters and planks were thrown across overhead and thus all exit to the outer world was cut off. There was an oppressive sensation in being so completely isolated from the outside world—barred out, as it were, from the surface of the earth. Yet how many there are who spend half their lives in such a place for a pittance of wages which they squander in dissipation! Surely it is worth four dollars a day to work in these dismal holes.

Bracing my nerves with such thoughts as these, I scrambled down the rickety ladders till the last rung seemed to have disappeared. I probed about with a spare leg for a landing place, but could touch neither top, bottom nor sides. The ladder was apparently suspended in space like Mohammed’s coffin.

“Come on, sir,” cried the voice of Jansen far down below. “They’re going to blast.”

Pleasant, if not picturesque, to be hanging by two arms and one leg to a ladder, squirming about in search of a foothold, while somebody below was setting fire to a fuse with the design, no doubt, of blowing up the entire premises!

“Mr. Jansen,” said I, in a voice of unnatural calmness, while the big drops of agony stood on my brow, “there’s no difficulty in saying ‘Come on, sir!’ but to do it without an inch more of ladder or anything else that I can see, requires both time and reflection. How far do you expect me to drop?”

“Oh, don’t you let go, sir. Just hang on to that rope at the bottom of the ladder, and let yourself down.”

I hung on as directed and let myself down. It was plain sailing enough to one who knew the chart. The ladder, it seemed, had been broken by a blast of rocks; and now there was to be another blast. We retired into a convenient hole about ten or a dozen paces from the deposit of Hazard’s powder. The blast went off with a dead reverberation, causing a concussion in the air that affected one like a shock of galvanism; and then there was a diabolical smell of brimstone. Jansen was charmed at the result. A mass of the ledge was burst clean open. He grasped up the blackened fragments of quartz, licked them with his tongue, held them up to the candle, and constantly exclaimed: “There, sir, there! Isn’t it beautiful? Did you ever see anything like it?—pure gold, almost—here it is!—don’t you see it?”

I suppose I saw it; at all events I put some specimens in my pocket, and saw them afterward out in the pure sunlight, where the smoke was not so dense; and it is due to the great cause of truth to say that gold was there in glittering specks, as if shaken over it from a pepper-box.

Having concluded my examination of the mine, I took the bucket as a medium of exit, being fully satisfied with the ladders. About half-way up the shaft the iron swing or handle to which the rope was attached caught in one of the ladders. The rope stretched. I felt it harden and grow thin in my hands. The bucket began to tip over. It was pitch dark all around. Jansen was far below, coming up the ladder. Something seemed to be creaking, cracking, or giving way. I felt the rough, heavy sides of the bucket press against my legs. A terrible apprehension seized me that the gear was tangled and would presently snap. In the pitchy darkness and the confusion of the moment I could not conjecture what was the matter. I darted out my hands, seized the ladder and, jerking myself high out of the bucket, clambered up with the agility of an acrobat. Relieved of my weight, the iron catch came loose, and up came the bucket banging and thundering after me with a velocity that was perfectly frightful. Never was there such a subterranean chase, I verily believe, since the beginning of the world. To stop a single moment would be certain destruction, for the bucket was large, heavy and massively bound with iron, and the space in the shaft was not sufficient to admit of its passing without crushing me flat against the ladder.

But such a chase could not last long. I felt my strength give way at every lift. The distance was too great to admit the hope of escape by climbing. My only chance was to seize the rope above the bucket and hang on to it. This I did. It was a lucky thought—one of those thoughts that sometimes flash upon the mind like inspiration in a moment of peril. A few more revolutions of the “whim” brought me so near the surface that I could see the bucket only a few yards below my feet. The noise of the rope over the block above reminded me that I had better slip down a little to save my hands, which I did in good style, and was presently landed on the upper crust of the earth, all safe and sound, though somewhat dazzled by the light and rattled by my subterranean experiences.—From “Adventures in the Apache Country,” published by _Harper & Brothers_, New York, and used by their kind permission.

HOW CY HOPKINS GOT A SEAT

BY MARSHALL P. WILDER

In one of the country stores where they sell everything from a silk dress and a tub of butter to a hot drink and a cold meal, a lot of farmers were sitting around the stove one cold day, when in came Farmer Evans, who was greeted with:

“How d’do, Ezry?”

“How d’do boys?” After awhile he continued: “Wa-all, I’ve killed my hog.”

“That so? How much did he weigh?”

Farmer Evans stroked his chin whiskers meditatively and replied: “Wa-all, guess.”

“’Bout three hundred,” said one farmer.

“No.”

“Two seventy-five,” ventured another.

“No.”

“I guess about three twenty-five,” said a third.

“No.”

Then all together demanded: “Well, how much did he weigh?”

“Dunno. Hain’t weighed him yet.”

Other men kept dropping in and hugging the stove, for the day was cold and snowy outside. In came Cy Hopkins, wrapped in a big overcoat, yet almost frozen to death; but there wasn’t room enough around that stove to warm his little finger.

But he didn’t get mad about it; he just said to Bill Stebbins who kept the stove: “Bill, got any raw oysters?”

“Yes, Cy.”

“Well, just open a dozen and feed ’em to my hoss.”

Well, Stebbins never was scared by an order from a man whose credit was good as Cy’s was, so he opened the oysters and took them out, an’ the whole crowd followed to see a horse eat oysters. Then Cy picked out the best seat near the stove and dropped into it as if he had come to stay, as he had.

Pretty soon the crowd came back, and the storekeeper said: “Why, Cy, your hoss won’t eat them oysters.”

“Won’t he? Well, then, bring ’em here an’ I’ll eat ’em myself.”—From “The Sunny Side of the Street.” Published and copyrighted by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, and used by their kind permission and that of the author.

AN OVERWORKED RECITER

Once there was a little boy whose name was Robert Reece, And every Friday afternoon he had to say a piece, So many poems thus he learned that soon he had a store Of recitations in his head, and still kept learning more. And now this is what happened: He was called upon one week, And totally forgot the piece he was about to speak! His brain he cudgeled. Not a word remained within his head, And he spoke at random, and this is what he said:

“My beautiful, my beautiful, who standest proudly by. It was the schooner Hesperus—the breaking waves dashed high! Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome? Under the spreading chestnut tree there is no place like home! When Freedom from her mountain height cried, Twinkle, little star; Shoot if you must this old gray head, King Henry of Navarre! Roll on, thou deep and dark blue castled crag of Drachenfels; My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills, ring out, wild bells! If you’re waking call me early, To be or not to be! The curfew must not ring to-night! Oh, woodman, spare that tree! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on! And let who will be clever, The boy stood on the burning deck, but I go on forever!”

His elocution was superb, his voice and gesture fine; His schoolmates all applauded as he finished the last line. “I see it doesn’t matter,” Robert thought, “What words I say, So long as I declaim with oratorical display!”

—_London Tid-Bits._

SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

Strangers visiting the beautiful city of Burlington have not failed to notice that one of the handsomest young men they meet is very bald, and they fall into the usual error of attributing this premature baldness to dissipation. But such is not the case. This young man, one of the most exemplary Bible-class scholars in the city, went to a Baptist sociable out on West Hill one night about two years ago. He escorted three charming girls, with angelic countenances and human appetites, out to the refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, and then found he had left his pocketbook at home, and a deaf man that he had never seen before at the cashier’s desk. The young man, with his face aflame, bent down and said softly,

“I am ashamed to say I have no change with—”

“Hey?” shouted the cashier.

“I regret to say,” the young man repeated on a little louder key, “that I have unfortunately come away without any change to—”

“Change two?” chirped the old man. “Oh, yes, I can change five if you want it.”

“No,” the young man explained in a terrible, penetrating whisper, for half-a-dozen people were crowding up behind him, impatient to pay their bills and get away, “I don’t want any change, because—”

“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried, gleefully. “’Bleeged to ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Tain’t often we get such generous donations. Pass over your bill.”

“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have no funds—”

“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growing tired of the conversation and noticing the long line of people waiting with money in their hands, “but I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Settle and move on.”

“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have no money—”

“Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’t care when you go; you must pay and let these other people come up.”

“I have no money!” the mortified young man shouted, ready to sink into the earth, while the people all around him, and especially the three girls he had treated, were giggling and chuckling audibly.

“Owe money?” the cashier said, “of course you do; $2.75.”

“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning his pocket inside out and yelling his poverty to the heavens, he finally made the deaf man understand. And then he had to shriek his full name three times, while his ears fairly rang with the half-stifled laughter that was breaking out all around him; and he had to scream out where he worked, and roar when he would pay, and he couldn’t get the deaf man to understand him until some of the church members came up to see what the uproar was, and recognizing their young friend, made it all right with the cashier. And the young man went out into the night and clubbed himself, and shred his locks away until he was bald as an egg.

SODDING AS A FINE ART

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

One day, early in the spring, Mr. Blosberg, who lives out on Ninth Street, made up his mind that he would sod his front yard himself, and when he had formed this public-spirited resolution, he proceeded to put it into immediate execution. He cut his sod, in righteous and independent and liberty-loving disregard of the ridiculous city ordinance in relation thereto, from the patches of verdure that the cows had permitted to obtain a temporary growth along the side of the street, and proceeded to beautify his front yard therewith. Just as he had laid the first sod, Mr. Thwackery, his next door neighbor, passed by.

“Good land, Blosberg,” he shouted, “you’ll never be able to make anything of such a sod as that. Why, it’s three inches too thick. That sod will cake up and dry like a brick. You want to shave at least two inches and a half off the bottom of it, so the roots of the grass will grow into the ground and unite the sod with the earth. That sod is thick enough for a corner stone.”

So Mr. Blosberg took the spade and shaved the sod down until it was thin and about as pliable as a buckwheat cake, and Mr. Thwackery pronounced it all right and sure to grow, and passed on. Just as Mr. Blosberg got it laid down the second time, old Mr. Templeton, who lived on the next block, came along and leaned on the fence, intently observing the sodder’s movements.

“Well, now, Blosberg,” he said at length, “I did think you had better sense than that. Don’t you know a sod will never grow on that hard ground? You must spade it all up first, and break the dirt up fine and soft to the depth of at least four inches, or the grass can never take root in it. Don’t waste your time and sod by putting grass on top of such a baked brick-floor as that.”

And Mr. Blosberg laid aside the sod and took up the spade and labored under Mr. Templeton’s directions until the ground was all properly prepared for the sod, and then Mr. Templeton, telling him that sod couldn’t die on that ground now if he tried to kill it, went his way and Mr. Blosberg picked up that precious sod a third time, and prepared to put it in its place. Before he had fairly poised it over the spot, however, his hands were arrested by a terrific shout, and looking up he saw Major Bladgers shaking his cane at him over the fence.

“Blosberg, you insufferable donkey,” roared the Major, “don’t you know that you’ll lose every blade of grass you can carry if you put your sod on that dry ground? There you’ve gone and cut it so thin that all the roots of the grass are cut and bleeding, and you must soak that ground with water until it is a perfect pulp, so that the roots will sink right into it, and draw nutrition from the moist earth. Wet her down, Blosberg, if you want to see your labor result in anything.”

So Mr. Blosberg put the sod aside again, and went and pumped water and carried it around in buckets until his back ached like a soft corn, and when he had finally transformed the front yard into a morass, the major was satisfied, and assuring Mr. Blosberg that his sod would grow beautifully now, even if he laid it on upside down, marched away, and Mr. Blosberg made a fourth effort to put the first sod in its place. He got it down and was going back after another, when old Mrs. Tweedlebug checked him in his wild career.

“Lawk, Mr. Blosberg, ye mustn’t go off an’ leave that sod lying that way. You must take the spade and beat it down hard, till it is all flat and level, and close to the ground everywhere. You must pound it hard, or the weeds will all start up under it and crowd out the grass.”

Mr. Blosberg went back, and stooping over the sod hit it a resounding thwack with his spade that shot great gouts and splotches of mud all over the parlor windows and half way to the top of the house, and some of it came flying into his face and on his clothes, while a miscellaneous shower made it dangerous even for his adviser, who, with a feeble shriek of disapprobation, went hastily away, digging raw mud out of her ears. Mr. Blosberg didn’t know how long to keep on pounding, and he didn’t see Mrs. Tweedlebug go away, so he stood with his spade poised in the air and his eyes shut tight, waiting for instructions. And as he waited he was surprised to hear a new voice accost him. It was the voice of Mr. Thistlepod, the old agriculturist, of whom Mr. Blosberg bought his apples and butter.

“Hello, Mr. Blosberg!” he shouted, in tones which indicated that he either believed Mr. Blosberg to be stone deaf or two thousand miles away.

Mr. Blosberg winked violently to get the soil out of his eyes, and turned in the direction of the noise to say, “Good evening.”

“Soddin’, hey?” asked Mr. Thistlepod.

“Trying to, sir,” replied Mr. Blosberg, rather cautiously.

“’Spect it will grow, hey?”

Mr. Blosberg, having learned by very recent experience how liable his plans were to be overthrown, was still non-committal, and replied that “he hoped so.”

“Wal, if ye hope so, ye mustn’t go to poundin’ yer sod to pieces with that spade. Ye don’t want to ram it down so dad binged tight and hard there can’t no air git at the roots. Ye must shake that sod up a little, so as to loosen it, and then jest press it down with yer foot ontil it jest teches the ground nicely all around. Sod’s too thin, anyhow.”

So Mr. Blosberg thrust his hands into the nasty mud under his darling, much abused sod, and spread his fingers wide apart to keep it from breaking to pieces as he raised it, and finally got it loosened up and pressed down to Mr. Thistlepod’s satisfaction, who then told him he didn’t believe he could make that sod grow anyway, and drove away. Then Mr. Blosberg stepped back to look at that sod, feeling confident that he had got through with it, when young Mr. Simpson came along.

“Hello, Blos, old boy; watchu doin’?”

Mr. Blosberg timorously answered that he was sodding a little. Then Mr. Simpson pressed his lips very tightly together to repress a smile, and let his cheeks swell and bulge out to the size of toy balloons with suppressed merriment, and finally burst into a snort of derisive laughter that made the windows rattle in the houses on the other side of the street, and he went on, leaving Mr. Blosberg somewhat nettled and a little discouraged. He stood, with his fingers spread wide apart, holding his arms out like wings, and wondering whether he had better go get another sod or go wash his hands, when a policeman came by, and paused. “Soddin’?” he asked, sententiously.

“Yes, sir, a little,” replied Mr. Blosberg, respectfully.

“Where’d you get your sod?” inquired the representative of public order.

Mr. Blosberg dolefully indicated the little bare parallelogram in the scanty patch of verdure as his base of supplies.

“You’re the man I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied public order. “You come along with me.”

And Mr. Blosberg went along, and the Police Judge fined him $11.95, and when Mr. Blosberg got home he found that a cow had got into his yard during his absence and stepped on that precious sod five times, and put her foot clear through it every time, so that it looked like a patch of moss rolled up in a wad, more than a sod. And then Mr. Blosberg fell on his knees and raised his hands to heaven, and registered a vow that he would never plant another sod if this whole fertile world turned into a Sahara for want of his aid.

THE MISFORTUNES OF LITTLE IKE TEMPLIN

In the midst of his supper one day it occurred to little Ike to resort to the well for a drink of water. In time his mammy grew tired of stopping her work whenever he grew thirsty to hand him down a gourd from the pail which rested on the shelf beyond his reach. Finally she said to him: “Boy, what ails you anyhow? G’long out doors an’ try to be some use to somebody, stid of eatin’ up an’ drinkin’ up ev’yt’ing Mis’s got on her plantash’n.”

Little Ike, thus driven out, stood for a moment by the door and looked at the well, which was a few rods distant. But he turned his back upon it instantly, as if it were too painful to be thus reminded of the source of his most recent disappointment, and began walking in the opposite direction. When he had reached a spot on the line with the end of the kitchen, he filed to the left and again to the left when he had reached the rear side; and pursuing this line until he had gone some distance beyond the well, turned again and came to the latter. Stepping upon a hewn log which lay there to enable young drawers of water to manage the bucket, he was pleased to find this utensil as it was resting upon the ledge, half full of water. Conscious that the time was short, he clambered up to the edge, got upon all fours, grabbed with one hand the rim of the bucket, and with the other hand the well-rope, and, first taking an anxious glance toward the kitchen and a fond one toward the contents of the bucket, plunged in his head. He had hardly taken a few sips when the call of his mother at its accustomed pitch sounded from the kitchen.

And here I find myself under the painful necessity of recording a most terrible scene. I suppose it will never be known precisely how it happened, although no one, as well as I remember, ever suspected little Ike of a deliberate intention to commit the awful crime of suicide. It may have been that he had not known the use of his legs long enough for the present extreme need, and that his knees may have given a tilt to the bucket. At all events down they went together to the bottom, a distance of thirty feet.

The mother, who had seen him at the moment when the descent began, ran, half shrieking to the well, where she was joined by Mrs. Templin a moment after.

“Oh, Mis’s, Mis’s, my po’ ophing chile have fell in de well and broke his naik, and drown hese’f on top o’ that, an’ he my precious baby—an’ de las’ one I got!”

Mrs. Templin said: “I’m sorry for you, Judy. But maybe he has been mercifully saved from drowning. Lean over and look down as I turn the windlass.”

After a few turns, she knew by the feeling that the bucket had risen to the surface of the water, which was some four feet deep.

“Now call him,” she said.

“Li’ll Iky! Li’ll Iky!” shouted Judy.

“Ma-a-a-a-me!” came a sharp, plaintive answer from the great deep.

“Is you down dar, precious?”

“Eth, e-e-eth, ’m.”

“Well, well, is you drownded?”

“No—no—no, ’m!”

“Well, well! Is you done gone all to pieces?”

“No—n-n-no, ’m!”

“Is anything de matter wid mammy’s precious boy baby?”

“I k-k-k-co-co-o-ld!”

“Well, well, where is you now?”

“In—in de—b-b-bucket!”

Mrs. Templin then directed the mother to urge the child to hold fast to the rope while she herself would turn the windlass.

“Dar now, you heah dat? Mis’s say she wan’ my nice li’ll darky to ketch tight hold to der rope—tight as a tick; an’ she say she gwine draw him up with her own blessed hands. Mis’s say she can’t ’ford to lose likely li’ll fellow like my li’ll Ike, dat she can’t. Ye heah, mammy’s precious suga’ lump?”

“E-e-e-e-th, ’m!”

The winding began, and the mother, being urged to encourage Ike as much as possible during the ascent, did as well as she could by such cheering remarks as these:

“Jes’ look at dat! Mis’s givin’ her li’ll niggah such a nice ride! En Mis’s done tole mammy tah kill six chickens, an’ fry one o’m an’ brile one o’m an’ make pie out of de rest, an’ all for li’ll Iky’s dinner; an’ she say she gwine make daddy barb’cue two pigs dis very evenin’, and nobody ain’t to tech a mou’f’l on’m cep’n li’ll Iky if he’ll holt on tah de well-rope. An’ she say, Mis’s do, she jes’ know her great big li’ll Ike ain’t gwine to let dat rope loose an’ not get all dem goodies!”

It is possible that in so brief a time never was promised a greater number of luxuries to a child born to loftiest estate. Chickens, ducks—indeed the whole poultry yard was more than exhausted; every pig on the plantation was done to a turn. During the ascent little Ike was informed that eatables of every description would be at his disposal forever. The time does not suffice to tell of other rewards promised in the name of the munificent mistress, in the way of cakes, pies, syllabubs, gold and silver and costly apparel. All this while, Mrs. Templin, without uttering a word, turned the windlass, slowly, steadily.

When the bucket with its contents reached the top, and was safely lodged upon the ledge, the mother seized her precious darling, his teeth chattering the while with chill, and dragging him fiercely forth, said in wrathful tones:

“A cold is yah? Well, ef I be bressed wid strength an’ ef dey is peachy trees ’nough in de orchard, an’ de fence corners, I’ll wa’m yah. You dat has sceert me intah fits, an’ made me tell all dem lies—dem on Mis’s—dat I jes’ knows I never ken git fahgivin’ fo’ ’em.” And, still holding him, she began striding toward the kitchen door.

“Judy!” called her mistress sternly, “Judy, put down that child this minute! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Instead of being thankful that he wasn’t killed, here you stand and are so angry with him that you look as though you wished to kill him yourself. Now take him into your house and put some dry clothes on him; then send him to me in the house, where I will have some coffee ready for him. And mind you, Judy, if you lay your hands on that child in anger, that won’t be the last of it. Do for goodness’ sake try to learn some reason about your children.”

Judy led him away sullenly, and in spite of her mistress’s warning, muttered direful threatenings, louder and louder, as she approached, ending thus, as, having clothed him, she dispatched him to the big house:

“Nevah yah min’, sah; wait till Sunday come, when Mis’s go tah meetin’, an’ you’ll see! An’, boy, ef yah skeers me dat way ag’in, I’ll put yah whar yah won’t wan’ no mo’ watah an’ no mo’ nothin’. The idee! people all talkin’ ’bout my chile gittin’ drowned same as puppies an’ kittens! Ought to be ’shamed o’ yourself! I is. I jes’ ’spises to look at yah! G’long out my sight!”

Ten minutes afterwards, while little Ike was in the big house, luxuriating in coffee, biscuit and fried chicken, she was singing in cheerful voice one of her favorite hymns:

Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord; Nobody knows the trouble I see; Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord; Nobody knows like Jesus.

THE RETURN OF THE HOE

“Goliath Johnsing, why you so late? Supper been a sp’ilin’ on de stove dis half hour,” and Aunt Lucy faced her liege lord with stern dignity.

“Old Daddy Moses an’ me been a havin’ it out.”

“Havin’ what out? You ain’t been an’ had a fuss wid Mr. Benson, ’Liah Johnsing?”

“Yes, I have. Ole Skincher. Here I have been a hoein’ hard in the fiel’ all day, and he mean enough to dock my wages ten cents ’cause I warn’t back at noon jest at de minnit. I warn’t late more’n half an hour or three-quarters of an hour. But I give him piece of my mind.”

“I s’pose he don’ want to pay for work he don’ git.”

“Don’ git? Why, thar was Sam Stevens an’ Bill Jenkins; they talk more’n half de time, an’ rested on they handles more’n t’other half, an’ did he dock them any? Not he. He got spite ’gin me, I know dat.”

“Whar’d you git dat new hoe?” queried Aunt Lucy, as ’Liah hung that implement up in the woodshed.

“Neber you mind. Women always want to stick their nose into ebbert’ing.”

“An’ what you done wid your ole hoe you took away this noon? You didn’t trade that off for a new one?”

“Yes, I did, ’f ye will know.”

“’Liah Johnsing,” blurted out Aunt Lucy, as a sudden suspicion flamed in her eyes, “dat ain’t one of Moses Benson’s hoes? You ain’t gone and changed off yo’ ole hoe for one his’n, I hope? You wouldn’t do dat, if he is a skincher, an’ you a member ob de church, ’Liah Johnsing?”

“Mis’ Johnsing, you jes’ ten’ to yo’ own bus’ness. Don’ you let me hear not one mo’ word ’bout dat hoe.”

Suddenly, as bedtime drew near, ’Liah rose and went into the house, saying as he went:

“Got to go down to de sto’, Lucy. I forgot I got to mow Dawkinses fiel’ to-morrow, an’ my whetstun’s clear down to de bone, an’ I’ve got to start off to-morrow ’fore sto’s open.”

’Liah had been gone hardly a minute, when Aunt Lucy called in a tragic whisper to Paul, her oldest boy, six years of age.

“You Paul, come here quick, by yo’self.”

Paul, used to obeying, came promptly, and was drawn close up to his mother on the settee. “Now, you Paul, I wonder kin I trust you to do something for me?”

Paul, somewhat disturbed, kept discreetly silent.

“I wish you’s a little bigger, but de Lord will hol’ you up. Paul, you listen. When yo’ paw comes home from the sto’ an’ we’s all gone to bed and got to sleep—you hearin’, Paul?”

“Yes’m.”

“You get up still’s a mouse, an’ you go git dat hoe yo’ paw brought home, an’ don’t you make no noise takin’ it down, an’ you kerry dat hoe ober to Mr. Benson’s; an’ you take de hoe what’s hangin’ dar—dat’s our hoe, Paul, dat yo’ paw left dar by ’stake—you take dat hoe an’ bring it in the woodshed, an’ don’t you nebber tell yo’ paw nothin’ ’bout it.”

The first sun rays were shining in at the window through the morning-glories, the early breakfast was smoking on the table, the six young Johnsons were struggling down in various stages of sleepiness, Aunt Lucy was bending over the stove and ’Liah washing at the sink, when a loud knock was heard at the kitchen door, which, being open, disclosed Mr. Benson. By his side stood the village constable. In his hand was an old and much battered hoe. ’Liah saw the hoe and his upper jaw fell. Aunt Lucy’s gaze also was riveted on it.

“Goliah Johnson,” said the constable, “you’re my prisoner. You stole Mr. Benson’s hoe.”

“’Fore de Lord, Mr. Benson, I ain’t got yo’ hoe. What you doin’ wid mine?”

“You needn’t pretend that you left your old hoe in my barn yesterday by mistake, ’Liah Johnson,” burst in Mr. Benson, “as if you couldn’t tell this old thing from my hoe. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“You may search dis place, Mr. Benson, from top to bottom an’ side to side, an’ you won’t find no stiver of yo’ old hoe. How you got mine I ’clare I give up, but you kin see fo’ yourself. Now, here’s where I keeps my hoe,” and ’Liah swung open the woodshed door.

There hung Mr. Benson’s new hoe.

“You Paul!” fairly shouted Aunt Lucy, pouncing on her young hopeful, “what did you do las’ night?”

“Did jist what you tol’ me. Took back dat hoe an’ changed it for de one in Mr. Benson’s barn.”

“Took back what hoe?” shouted ’Liah in his turn. “Lucy Johnsing, what you been stickin’ yo’ fingers in?”

“Well, ’Liah, I ’lowed I warn’t gwine to have no hoe in dis house what didn’t b’long to us by rights, ’n’ so I tol’ Paul to get up las’ night an’ change de hoes back again, an’ if he did it, how dis one comes heah beats me.”

“You Lucy Johnsing, see what you’s been an’ done wid yo’ meddlin’. I took back dat hoe ’fore I went to bed, when I made ’s though I was gettin’ de whetstun, an’ then you went and changed ’em back ag’in.”

“’Liah Johnsing, why you keep secrets from yo’ wedded wife? Why didn’t you tell me ’bout dat?”

By this time Mr. Benson saw that there was something more in the matter than he supposed, and sending away the constable he got from the worthy couple, with much circumlocution, the story of the night’s mistakes. Being a man with some sense of humor, he was quite mollified by the comicalities of the situation, and even went so far as to take breakfast with the Johnsons.

“An’ after dis, ’Liah Johnsing,” was Aunt Lucy’s moral, “you’d better think twice ’fore you keep any mo’ secrets from yo’ lawful wedded wife!”

PATHETIC SELECTIONS

WHEN THE LITTLE LADY FELL ILL

ANONYMOUS

“Once upon a time,” there was a little lady, gentle and sweet. One day she sent for the doctor. She was ill. She lay upon her bed with her bronze hair afloat upon the pillow. She smiled as the doctor came in and held out a hand tiny and soft and very white. Her teeth shone between her crimson lips and there were beautiful violet lights in her brown eyes. She was always full of life and spirit. Now here she was in bed and sending for the doctor, she who had almost never before needed a doctor. A great operation was decided upon. She only asked how long she would be out of the sun. They thought the operation would heal. But it did not—and there was another and another. For a little while after each operation she did get back to the sun and was very happy, just as a butterfly might be.

But at last they who watched knew that the frail little body could not withstand another operation and that the end was near—very near. Then came the fourteenth day of December, when, they told the young doctor, it was his duty to tell the little butterfly. That night he walked the streets—all the long night. It rained. But he did not feel it. In the morning he understood why some must die, for in the rain and the night he had unconsciously been with the God who gives and who takes away. He went, gaunt with the night’s agony, but smiling, and took the two little hands into his.

“Did you ever wonder,” he asked her, “as I have, why God gives life only to take it away?”

“Just for love,” she smiled. “He wants the best Himself.”

“Do you know,” he said, “that you are very ill?”

“Am I?” she said, suddenly turning her great, startled eyes upon him.

“Haven’t you noticed,” he tried to go on, “that you—”

“No,” she said breathlessly. “You said I would get well—always said it. And I knew that you knew, and I trusted you.”

“Doctors must do those things,” he pleaded, “because it keeps up the patient’s courage. There is no medicine like hope.”

“I have never thought till now,” she halted, “that I would not get well.”

“I have known it for a long time.”

“And you have been so sweet and brave so as to—”

“No, I have deceived you only that you might live a little longer.”

They were silent for a long time. Then she reached out and touched his hand.

“Then you mean,” she whispered, “that—”

He closed her lips, and she understood.

“Poor doctor! It is dreadful to make you the bearer of such a message.” She thought silently a long while. “At first I was inclined to be cross at you for deceiving me. But now—” a tear presently stole down each pale young cheek “—but now,” she ended in a whisper, “it is wonderful—beautiful—very, very beautiful! One can hardly believe that there are people who willingly bear the sorrows of others.”

“I have been only selfish, I wanted to keep you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I understand.”

“How long?”

“Only a few days, perhaps a week—two weeks.”

“No,” she cried suddenly, “for that is Christmas. And the house will be sad—in mourning. No! You must make me live. You must make them think I am getting well.”

“Ah, if we only could! But I must not deceive you any longer. I said two weeks—but it will not be that long.”

“It will—it must be!” she said, suddenly rising in bed. “We will pray God, and you will help, and I will. There must be some sort of tonic—a stimulant—tell me—tell me there is! You must not spoil their Christmas—on—on my account!”

She smiled a little at the odd ending of her phrase and dropped back upon the pillow, flushed and brilliant, splendid, so that even the doctor was deceived, and hoped.

“If you can do that—keep up such a vigor by hope and happiness, the hope of happiness for others—perhaps, with God’s help, we can—do what you wish.”

“Of course we can. I know it!”

“Then so do I, and you shall have the uttermost minute.”

“And when it is done,”—the young spirit weakened,—“this, which you gave me so long ago, shall be yours again—for a memory!”

She put his hand upon the ring which fitted her middle finger.

“A memory?” he whispered.

“Of the bravest and sweetest man in the world,” she said, putting a kiss upon the ring. “Oh! but I don’t want to go.”

She was so wonderful—with such a tremendous spirit in that brave little body. The doctor thought she might even then get well.

And when he came again, she did seem well—quite well. Her cheeks were pink, her lips crimson, her hair was coiled and dressed. She smiled and said: “Paint!”

But the trick had deceived her family even more than it had deceived the doctor. For, one by one they came in and, standing at the foot of the bed, seeing the pretty little painted creature, they were sure that she was getting better rapidly—was, in fact, almost well! Her younger sister romped in and leaped upon the bed, crying: “See, doctor! It is all as it used to be! And it has been so long since it was all as it used to be. Dearest, soon we will be out on Saint George’s Hill again, rolling together on the grass, down, down and—”

“Yes,” cooed the little patient rapturously, “soon—very soon—.” But a sudden sob ended the incident.

“Thank you—oh! thank you so much, doctor, dear, for giving back to me the sweetest sister in all, all the whole world!”

Day by day more paint was required to cover the growing pallor, and always more and more. And always more drugs to keep the eyes bright and the spirits from flagging. When the young doctor wasn’t by her side he was studying—searching—until there was nothing in all medical science for prolonging life which he did not know.

The house became gay again because of the lie that was practiced. The noises which had been hushed when there was danger were resumed.

There was at last a day when the doctor helped at the dressing and painting; so near was the shadow that she might have flown at a breath.

And so they put upon her, lying in their hands, wonderful garments and ribbons and embroideries. And even the little hands on that day had to be carefully “made up” to conceal the livid blue. Then when all was ready, they sat her royally up in bed, lighted the candles, closed the blinds and let the waiting family enter—for it was the day before Christmas.

They came to music—the moment the door was opened—bursting with joy. A processional they made of it!

“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah, Pilgrim through this barren land; I am weak, but Thou art mighty; Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”

Standing about her bed they sang that, and each separate heart was welling a song of joy, because they thought she had come back to them!

Like those great ladies at Versailles, in the reign of the Grand Monarch, who received in bed, she laughed, happy as the happiest of them.

Then came another procession, down to the last servant in the house, bearing gifts. Then flowers and green things—until the beautiful rose-embroidered covering of her bed was lost to sight under the load of flowers, and these in turn were blotted out with the gifts. Wonderful gifts they were! How could they not be? They were welcoming with them their best beloved back to life! On her neck was girded a chain, on her fingers were put rings, and in her ears were hung gems, so that she blazed with jewels. Before her lay a splendid, filmy dress, and with it were hat and gloves and a gay parasol.

All—all, gifts of life!

And yet another procession came, bearing holly and mistletoe and garlands and crimson berries, and last of all, a Christmas tree, all lighted and glowing with a hundred pretty things. And almost in a moment they transformed the room into a Christmas bower. The bed, the walls, the floor, bloomed in the red and white and green of Christmas.

So Christmas came—the gayest, the maddest, the saddest that house had ever known.

But she had barely carried it through, and when the excitement would pass the doctor knew that no stimulant devised by man could keep her on the earth she had blessed an hour longer. Before the collapse quite came, the doctor said:

“My patient is tired—”

“A little tired, yes,” she smiled at them. “To-morrow.”

So they all kissed the painted lips good-night and, wishing her a happy to-morrow, went away.

The doctor moved to take the heavy gifts off the bed. She stopped him with a tired smile and a shake of the head. It was all she could do just then. Life was very low.

“No,” she shook, “I want them all just as they are. Mamma said to-morrow—” she halted.

“Yes.”

“Poor mamma!”

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain, dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

—Written as a funeral poem for Lincoln, and one of the great poems of the nineteenth century.

THE FACE OF THE MASTER

BY MYRTLE REED

In a little town in Italy there lived an old violin-maker whose only pride and happiness was in the perfect instruments he made. He had a little son called Pedro. Pedro was a dark little fellow with large, brown eyes which seemed to hold a world of feeling and sometimes sadness. He loved his mother dearly, but shrank somewhat from his stern father, who was always so busy he hardly noticed him.

Pedro was errand boy for the little shop and tried to do his work patiently, cheerfully and obediently. One day an unusually fine instrument had been finished and the old man, in his joy and pride, held it in position and touched the strings softly with the bow. Pedro, who was sitting outside on the porch, heard the music and came running in to hear it, but in his haste he did not see an exquisite piece of carving on the floor and stepped upon it. Crack! it broke in two. Pedro’s father became very angry and pushed him into his little bedroom and turned the key in the lock.

In the morning Pedro’s father called him very early, as he had many errands for the boy to do. All day Pedro trudged wearily back and forth for his father. He went about his work as if in a dream, thinking always of the music he had heard and wishing with all his heart that he might play. Night was coming on and Pedro was sitting on the step outside resting, when his father told him he had yet another errand for him to do. Pedro was very tired, yet he did not say anything but went immediately on the errand. When he had delivered the message, the man showed him a short cut home. As Pedro was walking slowly home, he stopped suddenly as he heard the sound of music. Could it be a violin? He listened to find from whence it came. At last he decided it came from the little vine-covered cottage across the lane. He walked slowly over and sat down under the open window. The music was exquisite. As he listened he heard the soft wind rustling through the trees, the sound of birds calling to one another in the forest, the sound of rushing water as that of a river as it flowed headlong into the ocean.

The music changed as he listened; he heard a soft, dreamy lullaby, then again the sound of the ocean, of the waves beating upon the sand. As he listened the music grew fainter, the moon came out from behind the cloud and Pedro saw the face of the Master.

He was a bent old man with white hair and beautiful blue, shining eyes. As the music ended in one long, sweet, trembling chord, Pedro saw the Master bend his head over his violin, and as he quietly slipped away he thought he heard the sound of sobbing.

Pedro walked the rest of the way home in a dream. As he came into the work-shop he saw the beautiful violin and touched it tenderly, caressingly. Oh, if he could only play! He went to bed, but could not sleep. The beautiful music kept coming back again and again. At last he arose, dressed himself and went into the work-shop. He picked up the violin tenderly, lovingly, and went out to the orchard to where a little brook ran merrily by. It was a beautiful night, calm and peaceful, a soft wind whispered through the trees, through the stillness the sweet, clear notes of a bird were heard. The witchery of the night, its calmness and quiet beauty, seemed to want him to play. So placing the violin in position, he ran the bow gently over the strings; at first the notes were short, trembling, and broken. Soon it became very beautiful, and still he played on and on. He did not notice that day was dawning, and upon looking up he was frightened at seeing his father standing before him. But his father smiled at him and said:

“My son, you are then a musician? The music was wonderful!”

Pedro smiled, but said nothing.

“You shall have lessons from the Master,” his father said. Pedro could hardly believe it. Lessons from the Master! To learn to play!

After the day’s work was done Pedro and his father walked down the same little, narrow street to the little vine-covered cottage that he had seen the night before. Soon Pedro found himself in a little sitting-room awaiting the Master. Soon the Master came, and Pedro’s father said, “If you will teach my son to play I will make you the most beautiful violin in the world.”

The Master was very well satisfied with his violin and he did not like to teach. But he said to Pedro, “Do you like music?” Pedro smiled, his whole soul in his eyes. The Master said, “Yes, you love it, you shall play.”

The next day Pedro came for his first lesson. He enjoyed it very much and soon mastered the tedious exercises.

So the years passed and Pedro had become famous. The Master was growing old; still the most beautiful violin had not been completed. One day Pedro came to visit the Master and the housekeeper told him he was ill. Pedro waited, hoping the Master might want him. Soon he returned home and began to play. While he was playing his father told him that the Master’s violin was finished. Pedro smiled sadly and said, “The Master is ill.” That evening as he sat playing a messenger came and summoned him to the Master’s house. He took the finished violin with him, and as he looked into the Master’s room he saw him lying there on a couch, so thin, and still, and white. He smiled as Pedro entered, and said, “You have come to play for me, my son? The night is so long and I am so tired. Play, Pedro, play!” Pedro showed him the newly finished violin, but he only smiled as he nodded for Pedro to begin.

Pedro played, and played, and played. In the music he interwove all the trials, sorrows and happiness of his childhood, and his love for the Master. A soft wind rustled through the trees, the sound of a little brooklet was heard and the birds calling to one another in the forest. It all ended with one trembling chord. When he had finished the Master was sitting up in bed. “Pedro, where did you learn to play that?”

Pedro smiled. “You taught me, Master. I always knew you must have had some sorrow in your life or you never could have played so exquisitely.”

The Master said: “You are right.” And then he told him of his sorrowful and suffering life. “Play it again, Pedro. Now you understand.”

Pedro played, and played, and played. This time there was a sweetness that somehow made the sad strain less noticeable. The Master lay looking out of the window; day was breaking. As the last sweet, trembling note died away, Pedro looked into the face of the Master. There was a beautiful smile on his face. For the Master the trials and sorrows of the world were over. Pedro knelt down before the Master and kissed the thin, white hand reverently, the hand that had made so many sad lives happy with beautiful music.

VOICE FROM A FAR COUNTRY

The old couple were very lonely as they sat in their little kitchen that wintry afternoon. It was their daughter’s birthday, their only child, who had left them to go to the great, glittering world on the far side of the water. There she had won fame with her voice, while they had stayed behind in the little village and tried to be cheerful without her. Usually they succeeded pretty well, but this birthday, of all days in the year, was the hardest to bear; even Christmas was not so hard as this birthday, which brought so vividly to their minds the memories of other birthdays—the first one when the baby’s coming had found them awe-struck with the joy and wonder of it all, and each succeeding year, as their treasure grew to girlhood and from a girl to a sweet and winning woman, then faded from their sight.

They had not seen her since, for money was scarce and time valuable. She must work very hard, so she wrote them. The old couple tried to keep up a conversation as they sat in the kitchen that wintry afternoon, but failed miserably. Finally after a long silence the old man rose and said:

“Guess I’ll get the chores done before it storms, mother. Coming on to snow fast.”

“All right, father, I’ll have supper ready for you when you come in.”

“You needn’t hurry about supper. Guess I’ll go to the post-office after I get the critters fed. There might be a letter from Milly.”

“All right, father.”

There was a new note in the woman’s voice, for this was just what she had been wishing her husband to do, but had not liked to have him take the long trip to the post-office with the weather so threatening.

The old man went out, and the woman began to prepare the supper. Twilight had come and she lighted an old-fashioned lamp, so clean that it sparkled. As she set the table she hummed the refrain of a lullaby, a little song she had often crooned when her arms had not been empty.

Suddenly the door flew open, letting in great gusts of wintry wind.

“Hurry and get that door shut, Pa. Warn’t there no letters?”

“No, but there’s this.”

The old man was carrying an old box almost too large for him to handle.

“When I went to the post-office I found there warn’t no letter and I was considerably disappointed, but as I was going by Jones’s store, Jones he comes to the door and says he, ‘Say, Si, there’s a box in here fer you!’ ‘Fer me?’ says I.

“‘It come this afternoon by express, and I guess by the looks of it, it’s from your daughter in forin’ parts,’ said he.

“So here ’tis, and now, mother, where’s the hatchet?”

The hatchet was brought and the box was opened.

“My, what a funny lookin’ thing! Looks like a small size sewing machine, and here’s a brass horn, too. I wonder if Milly sent that for a joke or what?”

Silas set the carved case of polished wood on the table, and the old couple gazed in puzzled astonishment at what they saw under it. After a silence the old man said:

“Perhaps there are some directions.” Going over to the box he found, as he had prophesied, a paper of instructions.

“It’s a—P-H-O-N-O-G-R-A-P-H, and them there things air records. Well, I know about as much as I did afore. I’ll follow out the directions and see what happens. Wish I knew what it was; ’tain’t no kind of a farm implement, that’s sartin, nor a potater parer, nor sewing machine. Well, we’ll follow these rules and see what she does.”

The faces of the old couple were full of interest, as Silas attached the spring and set the phonograph in motion. At first there was a peculiar buzzing sound, but nothing unusual happened, and the old people were beginning to look disappointed when, after the buzzing, came the sound of a voice singing. Surprise, wonder, amazement, succeeded each other on the old faces, as the first notes of “Home, Sweet Home” fell on their startled ears.

“’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam—”

The old couple listened breathlessly.

“Silas, that’s Milly singing.”

“No, ’tain’t!”

But the denial died on his lips as he recognized the voice.

“A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world is ne’er met with elsewhere.”

Clear and sweet came the tones, like pearls in their rounded purity. The mother was crying bitterly.

“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain.”

These words came with ringing force, and it seemed to the old folks that Milly, far away in Paris, stretched out her hands to them across the water.

“Home, home, sweet, sweet home, Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

The old man was crying too, but the tears of father and mother were not tears of sorrow, for the sting had gone out of their loneliness, and as the music ceased peace fell like a mantle on the little country home.—From _The Ladies’ Home Journal_.

LITTLE BROTHER

BY MADELEINE Z. DOTY

A TRUE STORY

It was a warm summer’s day in late August. No men were visible in the Belgian hamlet. The women reaped in the fields; the insects hummed in the dry, warm air; the house-doors stood open. On a bed in a room in one of the cottages lay a woman. Beside her sat a small boy. He was still, but alert, his eyes following the buzzing flies. With a bit of paper he drove the intruders from the bed. His mother slept. It was evident from the pale, drawn face that she was ill.

Suddenly the dreaming, silent, summer day was broken by the sound of clattering hoofs. Some one was riding hurriedly through the town.

The woman moved uneasily. Her eyes opened. She smiled at the little boy.

“What is it, dear?”

The boy went to the window. Women were gathering in the street. He told his mother and hurried from the room. Her eyes grew troubled. In a few minutes the child was back, breathless and excited.

“Oh, mother, mother, the Germans are coming!”

The woman braced herself against the shock. At first she hardly grasped the news. Then her face whitened, her body quivered and became convulsed. Pain sprang to her eyes, driving out fear; beads of perspiration stood on her forehead; a little animal cry of pain broke from her lips. The boy gazed at her paralyzed, horrified; then he flung himself down beside the bed and seized his mother’s hand.

“What is it, mother, what is it?”

The paroxysm of pain passed; the woman’s body relaxed, her hand reached for the boy’s head and stroked it. “It’s all right, my son.” Then as the pain began again, “Quick, sonny, bring auntie.”

The boy darted from the room. Auntie was the woman-doctor of B——. He found her in the Square. The townspeople were wildly excited. The Germans were coming. But the boy thought only of his mother. He tugged at auntie’s sleeve. His frenzied efforts at last caught her attention. She saw he was in need and went with him.

Agonizing little moans issued from the house as they entered. In an instant the midwife understood. She wanted to send the boy away, but she must have help. Who was there to fetch and carry? The neighbors, terrified at their danger, were making plans for departure. She let the boy stay.

Through the succeeding hour a white-faced little boy worked manfully. His mother’s cries wrung his childish heart. Why did babies come this way? He could not understand. Would she die? Had his birth given such pain? If only she could speak! And once, as if realizing his necessity, his mother did speak.

“It’s all right, my son; it will soon be over.”

That message brought comfort; but his heart failed when the end came. He rushed to the window and put his little hands tight over his ears. It was only for a moment. He was needed. His mother’s moans had ceased and a baby’s cry broke the stillness.

The drama of birth passed, the midwife grew restless. She became conscious of the outer world. There were high, excited voices; wagons clattered over stones; moving-day had descended on the town. She turned to the window. Neighbors with wheelbarrows and carts piled high with household possessions hurried by. They beckoned to her.

For a moment the woman hesitated. She looked at the mother on the bed, nestling her babe to her breast; then the panic of the outside world seized her. Quickly she left the room.

The small boy knelt at his mother’s bedside, his little face against hers. Softly he kissed the pale cheek. The boy’s heart had become a man’s. He tried by touch and look to speak his love, his sympathy, his admiration. His mother smiled at him as she soothed the baby, glad to be free from pain. But presently the shouts and disorder of the departing townspeople reached her ears. She stirred uneasily. Fear crept into her eyes. Passionately she strained her little one to her.

“How soon, little son, how soon?”

The lad, absorbed in his mother, had forgotten the Germans. With a start he realized the danger. His new-born manhood took command. His father was at the front. He must protect his mother and tiny sister. His mother was too ill to move, but they ought to get away. Who had a wagon? He hurried to the window, but already even the stragglers were far down the road. All but three of the horses had been sent to the front. Those three were now out of sight with their overloaded wagons. The boy stood stupefied and helpless. The woman on the bed stirred.

“My son,” she called. “My son!”

He went to her.

“You must leave me and go on.”

“I can’t, mother.”

The woman drew the boy down beside her. She knew the struggle to come. How could she make him understand that his life and the baby’s meant more to her than her own? Lovingly she stroked the soft cheek. It was a grave, determined little face with very steady eyes.

“Son, dear, think of little sister. The Germans won’t bother with babies. There isn’t any milk. Mother hasn’t any for her. You must take baby in your strong little arms and run—run with her right out of this land into Holland.”

But he could not be persuaded. The mother understood that love and a sense of duty held him. She gathered the baby in her arms and tried to rise, but the overtaxed heart failed, and she fell back half-fainting. The boy brought water and bathed her head until the tired eyes opened.

“Little son, it will kill mother if you don’t go.”

The boy’s shoulders shook. He knelt by the bed. A sob broke from him. Then there came the faint, far-distant call of the bugle. Frantically the mother gathered up her baby and held it out to the boy.

“For mother’s sake, son, for mother.”

In a flash the boy understood. His mother had risked her life for the tiny sister. She wanted the baby saved more than anything else in the world. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He wound his arms about his mother in a long, passionate embrace.

“I’ll take her, mother; I’ll get her there safely.”

The bugle grew louder. Through the open window on the far-distant road could be seen a cloud of dust. There was not a moment to lose. Stooping, the boy caught up the red, squirming baby. Very tenderly he placed the little body against his breast and buttoned his coat over his burden.

The sound of marching feet could now be heard. Swiftly he ran to the door. As he reached the threshold he turned. His mother, her eyes shining with love and hope, was waving a last good-by. Down the stairs, out of the back door, and across the fields sped the child. Over grass and across streams flew the sure little feet. His heart tugged fiercely to go back, but that look in his mother’s face sustained him.

He knew the road to Holland. It was straight to the north; but he kept to the fields. He didn’t want the baby discovered. Mile after mile, through hour after hour, he pushed on, until twilight came. He found a little spring and drank thirstily. Then he moistened the baby’s mouth. The little creature was very good. Occasionally she uttered a feeble cry, but most of the time she slept. The boy was intensely weary. His feet ached. He sat down under a great tree and leaned against it. Was it right to keep a baby out all night? Ought he to go to some farmhouse? If he did, would the people take baby away? His mother had said, “Run straight to Holland.” But Holland was twenty miles away. He opened his coat and looked at the tiny creature. She slept peacefully.

The night was very warm. He decided to remain where he was. It had grown dark. The trees and bushes loomed big. His heart beat quickly. He was glad of the warm, soft, live little creature in his arms. He had come on this journey for his mother, but suddenly his boy’s heart opened to the tiny, clinging thing at his breast. His little hand stroked the baby tenderly. Then he stooped, and softly his lips touched the red, wrinkled face. Presently his little body relaxed, and he slept. He had walked eight miles. Through the long night the deep sleep of exhaustion held him. He lay quite motionless, head and shoulders resting against the tree-trunk, and the new-born babe enveloped in the warmth of his body and arms slept also. The feeble cry of the child woke him. The sun was coming over the horizon and the air was alive with the twitter of birds.

At first he thought he was at home and had awakened to a long happy summer’s day. Then the fretful little cries brought back memory with a rush. His new-born love flooded him. Tenderly he laid the little sister down. Stretching his stiff and aching body, he hurried for water. Very carefully he put a few drops in the little mouth and wet the baby’s lips with his little brown finger. This proved soothing and the cries ceased. The tug of the baby’s lips on his finger clutched his heart. The helpless little thing was hungry, and he too was desperately hungry. What should he do? His mother had spoken of milk. He must get milk. Again he gathered up his burden and buttoned his coat. From the rising ground on which he stood he could see a farmhouse with smoke issuing from its chimney. He hurried down to the friendly open door. A kind woman gave him food. She recognized him as a little refugee bound for Holland. He had difficulty in concealing the baby, but fortunately she did not cry. The woman saw that he carried something, but when he asked for milk she concluded he had a pet kitten. He accepted this explanation. Eagerly he took the coveted milk and started on.

But day-old babies do not know how to drink. When he dropped milk into the baby’s mouth she choked and sputtered. He had to be content with moistening her mouth and giving her a milk-soaked finger.

Refreshed by sleep and food, the boy set off briskly. Holland did not now seem so far off. If only his mother were safe! Had the Germans been good to her? These thoughts pursued and tormented him. As before, he kept off the beaten track, making his way through open meadows and patches of trees. But as the day advanced, the heat grew intense. His feet ached, his arms ached, and, worst of all, the baby cried fretfully.

At noon he came to a little brook sheltered by trees. He sat down on the bank and dangled his swollen feet in the cool, fresh stream. But his tiny sister still cried. Suddenly a thought came to him. Placing the baby on his knees, he undid the towel that enveloped her. There had been no time for clothes. Then he dipped a dirty pocket-handkerchief in the brook and gently sponged the hot, restless little body. Very tenderly he washed the little arms and legs. That successfully accomplished, he turned the tiny creature and bathed the small back. Evidently this was the proper treatment, for the baby grew quiet. His heart swelled with pride. Reverently he wrapped the towel around the naked little one and, administering a few drops of milk, again went on.

All through that long, hot afternoon he toiled. His footsteps grew slower and slower; he covered diminishing distances. Frequently he stopped to rest, and now the baby had begun again to cry fitfully. At one time his strength failed. Then he placed the baby under a tree and rising on his knees uttered a prayer:

“O God, she’s such a little thing, help me to get her there.”

Like a benediction came the cool breeze of the sunset hour, bringing renewed strength.

* * * * *

In the afternoon of the following day a wagon stopped before a Belgian refugee-camp in Holland. Slowly and stiffly a small boy slid to the ground. He had been picked up just over the border by a friendly farmer, and driven to camp. He was dirty, bedraggled and footsore. Very kindly the ladies’ committee received him. He was placed at the table and a bowl of hot soup was set before him. He ate awkwardly with his left hand. His right hand held something beneath his coat, which he never for a moment forgot. The women tried to get his story, but he remained strangely silent. His eyes wandered over the room and back to their faces. He seemed to be testing them. Not for an hour, not until there was a faint stirring in his coat, did he disclose his burden. Then, going to her whom he had chosen as most to be trusted, he opened his jacket. In a dirty towel lay a naked, miserably thin, three-days’-old baby.

Mutely holding out the forlorn object, the boy begged help. Bit by bit they got his story. Hurriedly a Belgian refugee mother was sent for. She was told what had happened, and she took the baby to her breast. Jealously the boy stood guard while his tiny sister had her first meal. But the spark of life was very low.

For two days the camp concentrated on the tiny creature. The boy never left his sister’s side. But her ordeal had been too great. It was only a feeble flicker of life at best, and during the third night the little flame went out. The boy was utterly crushed. He had now but one thought—to reach his mother. It was impossible to keep the news from him longer. He would have gone in search. Gently he was told of the skirmish that had destroyed the Belgian hamlet. There were no houses or people in the town that had once been his home.

* * * * *

“That is his story,” ended the friendly little Dutch woman.

“And his father?” I inquired.

“Killed at the front,” was the reply.

I rose to go, but could not get the boy out of my mind. What a world! What intolerable suffering! Was there no way out? Then the ever-recurring phrase of the French and Belgian soldiers came to me. When I had shuddered at ghastly wounds, at death, at innumerable white crosses on a bloody battlefield, invariably, in dry, cynical, hopeless tones, the soldier would make the one comment,—

“_C’est la guerre; que voulez-vous?_”—“It is war; what would you?”

DRAMATIC SELECTIONS

BROWN WOLF

BY JACK LONDON

The Klondiker’s face took on a contemptuous expression as he said finally, “I reckon there’s nothin’ in sight to prevent me takin’ the dog right here an’ now.”

Walt’s face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense. His wife fluttered apprehensively into the breach.

“Maybe Mr. Miller is right,” she said. “I’m afraid that he is. Wolf does seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of Brown. He made friends with him instantly, and you know that’s something he never did with anybody before. Besides, look at the way he barked. He was bursting with joy. Joy over what? Without doubt at finding Mr. Miller.”

Walt’s striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with hopelessness.

“I guess you’re right, Madge,” he said. “Wolf isn’t Wolf, but Brown, and he must belong to Mr. Miller.”

“Perhaps Mr. Miller will sell him?” she suggested. “We can buy him.”

Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to be generous in response to generousness.

“I had five dogs,” he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper his refusal. “He was the leader. They was the crack team of Alaska. Nothin’ could touch ’em. In 1898 I refused five thousand dollars for the bunch. Dogs was high then anyway; but that wasn’t what made the fancy price. It was the team itself. Brown was the best in the team. That winter I refused twelve hundred for him. I didn’t sell ’m then an’ I ain’t a-sellin’ ’m now. Besides, I think a mighty lot of that dog. I’ve ben lookin’ for ’m for three years. It made me fair sick when I found he’d ben stole—not the value of him, but the—well, I liked ’m. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I seen ’m just now. I thought I was dreamin’. It was too good to be true. Why, I was his wet-nurse. I put ’m to bed, snug every night. His mother died, and I brought ’m up on condensed milk at two dollars a can when I couldn’t afford it in my own coffee. He never knew any mother but me.”

Madge began to speak:

“But the dog,” she said. “You haven’t considered the dog.”

Skiff Miller looked puzzled.

“Have you thought about him?” she asked.

“Don’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” was the response.

“Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter,” Madge went on. “Maybe he has his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You give him no choice. It had never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer California to Alaska. You consider only what you like. You do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.”

This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of his indecision.

“If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your happiness also,” she urged.

Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.

“What do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.

It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“D’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”

She nodded her head with positiveness. “I’m sure of it.”

Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal.

“He was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never loafed on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into shape. He’s got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say to him. Look at ’m now. He knows we’re talkin’ about him.”

The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other.

“An’ there’s a lot of work in ’m yet. He’s good for years to come. An’ I do like him.”

Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. Finally he said:

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your remarks, ma’am, has some weight in them. The dog’s worked hard, and maybe he’s earned a soft berth an’ has got a right to choose. Anyway, we’ll leave it up to him. Whatever he says goes. You people stay right here settin’ down; I’ll say ‘good-by’ and walk off casual-like. If he wants to stay, he can stay. If he wants to come with me, let ’m come. I won’t call ’m to come an’ don’t you call ’m to come back.”

He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and added, “Only you must play fair. No persuadin’ after my back is turned.”

“We’ll play fair,” Madge began, but Skiff Miller broke in on her assurances.

“I know the ways of women,” he announced. “Their hearts is soft. When their hearts is touched they’re likely to stack the cards, look at the bottom of the deck, an’ lie—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—I’m only discoursin’ about women in general.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Madge quavered.

“I don’t see as you’ve got any call to thank me,” he replied; “Brown ain’t decided yet. Now, you won’t mind if I go away slow. It’s no more’n fair, seein’ I’ll be out of sight inside a hundred yards.”

Madge agreed and added, “And I promise you faithfully that we won’t do anything to influence him.”

“Well, then, I might as well be gettin’ along,” Skiff Miller said, in the ordinary tones of one departing.

At this change in his voice Wolf lifted his head quickly, and still more quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. He sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore-paws on her hip and at the same time licking Skiff Miller’s hand. When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on Walt and licking both men’s hands.

“It ain’t no picnic, I can tell you that,” were the Klondiker’s last words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail.

For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and retrace his steps. Then, with a quick, low whine, Wolf sprang after him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant tenderness and strove gently to make him pause.

Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man.

Wolf’s perturbation began to wax. He desired ubiquity. He wanted to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily the distance was increasing. He sprang about excitedly, making short, nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick, sharp whines and beginning to pant.

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, his mouth opening and closing with jerky movements, each time opening wider. The jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense than the preceding one. And in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register of the human ear. All this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to howling.

But just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat, the wide open mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long and steadily at the retreating man. Suddenly Wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded Walt. The appeal was unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be.

A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge. Hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. He went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his nose—an old trick of his when begging for favors. He backed away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curveting and prancing, half rearing and striking his fore-paws to the earth, struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance.

This too he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of these humans who had never been cold before. No response could he draw from them, no help could he get. They did not consider him. They were as dead.

He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller was rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view. Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward; slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back.

And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to reappear. He waited a long minute, quietly, silently without movement as though turned to stone—withal stone quick with eagerness and desire. He barked once, and waited. Then he turned and trotted back to Walt Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily from view.

The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for the meadow larks, there was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge gazed triumphantly at her husband.

A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and deliberation marked his movements. He did not glance at the man and woman. His eyes were fixed up the trail. He had made up his mind. They knew it. And they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just begun.

He broke into a trot and Madge’s lips pursed, forming an avenue for the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. But the caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at her husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. The pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.

Wolf’s trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he made. Not once did he turn his head, his wolf’s brush standing out straight behind him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone.—From “Love of Life,” copyrighted by _The Macmillan Co._, New York, and used by their kind permission.

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS

BY WILSON BARRETT

It was a festival day in Rome. Nero had decreed it. In the Circus was to be given a performance the like of which had never before been witnessed. The whole city was excited by the rumors of the numbers of Christians doomed to die, and of the ferocity of the beasts they were to encounter.

The dungeon beneath the amphitheatre in which the Christians were imprisoned was a large, gloomy, stone vault, destitute of furniture of any kind.

Great was the contrast between the dark, damp cell and the sunlit arena, crowded with eager, gayly dressed patricians. In the dungeon were scores of men and women waiting for the signal to pass forth to a certain and cruel death; in the auditorium was a seething mass of humanity, thousands upon thousands impatiently awaiting their coming forth, and gloating already in imagination upon the horrors they must undergo.

The roars of the hungry beasts could be faintly heard, even when the doors were closed; so could the equally merciless howls of the blood-thirsty populace. How they were to die had not been told the martyrs; only this they knew, that they were to die, and that every endeavor would be made to make their deaths as horrible, revolting and cruel as possible.

Among them were a few that trembled and felt sick with physical fear, but not one murmured. Their eyes were mentally fixed upon the Cross.

Again there was a loud call of the trumpets. The doors were thrown open, and the arena beyond could be seen by the prisoners, flooded with golden sunshine.

“Now, then, march!”

For a moment there was a pause, but almost before it could be realized Mercia’s clear, sweet voice rang out the first words of their beloved hymn:

“Shepherd of souls that stumble by the way, Pilot of vessels storm-tossed in the night, Healer of wounds, for help to Thee we pray.”

Singing these words with uplifted eyes and undaunted hearts, those noble martyrs went calmly and resignedly through the dark Valley of the Shadow of Death to the everlasting peace that awaited them beyond.

Mercia, a beautiful girl, was left alone in the dungeon. It was generally understood that Marcus Superbus, the handsome, wealthy young Prefect of Rome, was madly in love with this Christian girl, and the adventuress who hoped to entrap Marcus prevailed upon Nero to make Mercia’s punishment unique and horrible.

She sank upon her knees with her face pressed against the iron bars. Presently the door leading to the corridor was unbarred. Two officers entered, ushering in Marcus, who started on finding Mercia alone. Dismissing the guards, he closed the door and gazed with infinite tenderness upon the white figure at his feet—Mercia.

For a time Marcus could not speak; his heart felt like bursting with grief for this beautiful girl. Here in this loathsome dungeon she could still preserve her courage and could still pray for forgiveness for her persecutors.

“Mercia! Mercia!”

“What would you with me?”

“I came to save thee. I have knelt to Nero for thy pardon. He will grant it upon one condition—that thou dost renounce thy false worship—”

“It is not false! It is true and everlasting.”

“Everlasting? Nothing is everlasting! There is no after-life; the end is here. Men come and go; they drink their little cup of woe or happiness, and then sleep—the sleep that knows no awakening.”

“Art thou sure of that? Ask thyself, are there no inward monitors that silently teach thee there is a life to come?”

“All men have wishes for a life to come, if it could better this.”

“It _will_ better this, if this life be _well_ lived. Hast thou lived well?”

“No; thou hast taught me that I never knew the shame of sin until I knew thy purity. Ah! whence comes thy wondrous grace?”

“If I have any grace it comes from Him who died on Calvary’s cross that grace might come to all.”

“Thou dost believe this?”

“I _do_ believe it.”

“But thou hast no proof.”

“Yes. The proof is here.”

“Oh, thou dost believe so? All men, all nations have their gods. This one bows down to a thing of stone, and calls it his god; another to the sun, and calls it his god. A god of brass—a god of gold—a god of wood. Each tells himself _his_ is the _true_ god. All are mistaken.”

“All _are_ mistaken.”

“And thou? What is thy God? A fantasy—a vision—a superstition. Wilt thou die for _such_ a thing?”

“I will die for my Master gladly.”

“Mercia, hear me! Thou shalt _not_ die! I cannot let thee go! I love you so! I love you so!”

“Thou hast told me so before, and wouldst have slain thy soul and mine.”

“I grant it. I did not know. I was blind! Now I see my love for thee is love indeed. The brute is dead in me, the man is living. Thy purity that I would have smirched hath cleansed me. Live, Mercia! Live and be my wife!”

“Thy wife? Thy wife? Oh, Marcus, hear me. This love I speak of came, I know not whence, nor how, then; now I know it came from Him who gave me life. I receive it joyfully because He gave it. Think you He gave it to tempt me to betray Him? Nay, Marcus, He gave it to me to uphold and strengthen me. I will be true to Him!”

“Thou wilt love?”

“I will not deny Him who died for me!”

“Mercia, if thy God exists He made us both, the one for the other. Hearken! I am rich beyond all riches. I have power, skill, strength; with these the world would be my slave, my vassal. Nero is hated, loathed—is tottering on his throne. I have friends in plenty who would help me—the throne of Cæsar might be mine—and thou shalt share it with me if thou wilt but live. The crown of an Empress shall deck that lovely head if thou wilt but live—only consent to live!”

“My crown is not of earth, Marcus; it awaits me there.”

“I cannot part from thee and live, Mercia! I have, to save thy precious life, argued and spoken against thy faith, thy God, but to speak truth to thee, I have been sorely troubled since I first saw thee. Strange yearnings of the spirit come in the lonely watches of the night; I battle with them, but they will not yield. I tremble with strange fears, strange thoughts, strange hopes. If thy faith be true, what is this world?—a little tarrying-place, a tiny bridge between two vast eternities, that from which we have traveled, that towards which we go. Oh, but to know! How can I know, Mercia? Teach me how to know!”

“Look at the Cross, and pray, ‘Help Thou my unbelief.’ Give up all that thou hast, and follow Him!”

“Would He welcome even me?”

“Yea, even thee, Marcus.”

Now there sounded on their ears another call from the trumpets. The brazen doors slid back, the guards entered, followed this time by Tigellinus.

“Prefect, the hour has come. Cæsar would have this maid’s decision. Doth she renounce Christus and live, or cling to him and die?”

“Mercia, answer him!”

“I cling to Him and die. Farewell, Marcus!”

“No, not ‘Farewell.’ Death cannot part us. I, too, am ready! My lingering doubts are dead; the light hath come! Return to Cæsar; tell him Christus hath triumphed. Marcus, too, is a Christian.”

His face shone with the same glorious radiance that had transfigured the features of Mercia. They were glorified by the presence of Him who had promised to them, even as He had promised to the penitent thief dying on the Cross beside Him—“Verily, I say unto thee, this day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”

THE LITTLE FIR TREE

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim and pointed and shiny, which stood in a forest in the midst of some big fir trees, broad and tall and shadowy green. The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy because he was not big like the others. When the birds came flying into the woods and lit on the branches of the big trees, and built their nests there, he used to call up to them, “Come down, come down, rest in my branches!” But they always said, “Oh, no, no, you are too little.”

And when the splendid wind came blowing and singing through the forest, it bent and rocked and swung the tops of the big trees and murmured to them. Then the Little Fir Tree looked up and called—“Oh, please, dear wind, come down and play with me!” But he always said, “Oh, no, you are too little, you are too little.” And in the winter the white snow fell softly, softly, and covered the great trees all over with wonderful caps and coats of white. The Little Fir Tree close down in the cover of the others would call up, “Oh, please, dear snow, give me a cap too! I want to play too!” But the snow always said—“Oh, no, no, no, you are too little, you are too little.”

The worst of all was when men came with sledges and teams of horses. They came to cut the big trees and carry them away. And when one had been cut down and carried away, the others talked about it, and nodded their heads. And the Little Fir Tree listened, and heard them say that when you were carried away so, you might become the mast of a mighty ship and go far away over the ocean and see many wonderful things, or you might be a part of a fine house in a great city and see much of life. The Little Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life but he was always too little; the men passed him by. But, by and by, one cold winter’s morning, men came with a sledge and horses and after they had cut here and there, they came to the circle of trees round the Little Fir Tree and looked all about. “There are none little enough,” they said. Oh! how the Little Fir Tree pricked up his needles. “Here is one,” said one of the men; “it is just little enough.” And he touched the Little Fir Tree. The little Fir Tree was happy as a bird, because he knew they were about to cut him down. And when he was being carried away on the sledge he lay wondering so contentedly whether he should be the mast of a ship or part of a fine house in the city. But when they came to the town he was taken out and set upright in a tub and placed on the edge of a sidewalk in a row of other fir trees all small, but none so little as he. And then the Little Fir Tree began to see life. People kept coming to look at the trees and take them away, but always when they saw the Little Fir Tree, they shook their heads and said, “It is too little, too little!” Until finally two children came along, hand in hand, looking carefully at all the small trees. When they saw the Little Fir Tree, they cried out, “We’ll take this one; it is just little enough!” They took him out of his tub and carried him away between them. And the happy Little Fir Tree spent all his time wondering what it could be that he was just little enough for; he knew it could hardly be a mast or a house since he was going away with children. He kept wondering while they took him in through some big doors and set him up in another tub on the table in a bare little room. Pretty soon they went away and came back again with a big basket carried between them. Then some pretty ladies, with white caps on their heads and white aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing little parcels. The children took things out of the basket and began to play with the Little Fir Tree, just as he had often wished the birds and wind and snow to do; he felt their soft little touches on his head and his twigs and his branches, and when he looked down at himself, as far as he could look, he saw that he was all hung with gold and silver chains!

There were strings of fluffy white stuff drooping around him. His twigs held little gold nuts and pink rosy balls and silver stars. He had little pink and white candles in his arms, but last and most wonderful of all, the children hung a beautiful white floating doll angel over his head! The Little Fir Tree could not breathe for joy and wonder. What was it that he was now? Why was this glory for him? After a time every one went away and left him. It grew dusk and the Little Fir Tree began to hear strange sounds through the closed doors. Sometimes he heard a child crying. He was beginning to be lonely. It grew more and more shadowy. All at once the doors opened and the two children came in. Two of the pretty ladies were with them. They came to the Little Fir Tree and quickly lighted all the pink and white candles. Then the two pretty ladies took hold of the table with the Little Fir Tree on it and pushed it, very smoothly and quickly, out of the doors, across a hall and in at another door. The Little Fir Tree had a sudden sight of a long room with many little white beds in it, of children propped up on pillows in the beds, and of other children in great wheel chairs and others hobbling about or sitting in little chairs. He wondered why all the little children looked so white and tired; he did not know he was in a hospital. But before he could wonder any more, his breath was quickly taken away by the shout those little white children gave. “Oh, Oh! M—M—” they cried. “How pretty!” “How beautiful!” “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” He knew they must mean him, for all their shining eyes were looking straight at him. He stood straight as a mast and quivered in every needle for joy. Presently one weak little voice called out, “It’s the nicest Christmas tree I ever saw!” And then, at last, the Little Fir Tree knew what he was; he was a Christmas tree! And from his shiny head to his feet he was glad, through and through, because he was just little enough to be the nicest kind of a tree in the world.

A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK

BY JULIET WILBUR TOMPKINS

The two were amazingly, even absurdly alike, as they faced each other across the library table. The very scowl that lay heavy on the girl’s forehead was an obvious inheritance from the parental scowl opposite.

“I’m a self-made man, Paula—plain Western goods. It’s too late to teach me fancy values. I don’t go a hang on anything but facts. Some folks can put a paper frill around a mutton chop and call it lamb, but that ain’t my way. I see things as they are.”

“Well, I’m the daughter of a self-made man, and of a New England school-teacher too; if you can beat that combination for seeing things, as they are—”

“It’s your notion that you see this young feller as he is?”

“I do. And he has got just the things that you and I haven’t and need.”

“He has, eh? You might mention one or two.”

“Ancestry.”

“Oh, pshaw!”

“Well, then, a sense of humor.”

“A—what?” If she had said a “top-knot,” he could not have looked more amazedly disgusted.

“A sense of humor. And he’s got common sense too. He’s poor and alone in the world and not awfully practical, but I tell you, father, there’s stuff in him that we hustlers have got to get into our families sooner or later, if we’re going to the top. And—I—am.”

“H’m. On sixty dollars a month?”

“If necessary. Oh, I don’t pretend that Ralph has done much in business yet. Few men have, at nineteen.”

“At nineteen I had been at work seven years, and had been raised six times, both in salary and position. This young feller tells me he has been at work three years, and has been raised once—in salary only.”

“And that once was since he became interested in me; there is one thing you have got to take into account, father—that Ralph with me will have a very different career from Ralph without me.”

“But, Paula, is that just your notion of a husband?”

“Ralph is just my notion of a husband.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but he ain’t mine, and that settles it. You’ll live to thank me for it.”

“Well, here’s fair warning: I don’t give him up.”

“Oh, I guess you will.”

“You are trying to make the worst mistake of your life, father,” she said reasonably. “Now a mushy daughter would give in and let you repent it later; but I think it’s a lot better to save you from it, and _you’ll_ live to thank me yet.”

“I’ll live to take you East and leave you there with your Aunt Jennie, till you’ve got sense, if I hear any more of this.”

“Well, then, you won’t hear any more about it.” And she went out.

“The little cuss!” he muttered. Then he sat down and wrote a letter beginning, “Dear Jennie,” and ending, “For heaven’s sake, wire that you will take her, or she’ll be off with him—by the front door and in broad daylight, understand. She’s a straight little cuss. What an everlasting shame she wasn’t a boy!”

Even as he signed: “Your aff. Bro.,” the massive front door banged; but he was too absorbed to notice it. Paula, calm and serious, carrying a suit-case, took a car for the station where a young man was nervously pacing the platform. He stood watching her for a moment before she saw him. The clear red of her cheeks was no deeper than usual, her blue eyes were unclouded, in all her handsome, well-dressed person there was not one hurried movement. She even paused to compare her watch with the station clock. An irrepressible laugh brought the color back to his face. “Oh, Paula, so you are here,” as he hurried to meet her. “You elope as calmly as you would go shopping.”

“It’s a far more sensible proceeding! Have you the tickets?”

“Not yet, dear Paula, I want you enough to commit almost any crime—you know that, and yet I can’t quite square it with myself—this running away with a man’s daughter. And—such a rich man, confound it! I’ve been awake all night thinking over one thing. You swept me off my feet yesterday; but to-day—”

“But, Ralph, I gave father fair warning. And this happens to be a case where he is wrong and I am right. I don’t think that just because I’m—I’m fond of you, but I can see, you know, just what you have got, and what the other men I know haven’t got, better than father can. He will see it too, some day, and thank me—I told him so. I’m not really eloping, since eighteen is the age for a girl in this state. And the fact that you’re not of age yet doesn’t matter, for you haven’t any parents or guardians to object. And father needn’t give us any money—we can get along with yours and mine. Now the train is due in three minutes and, of course, you needn’t marry me if you don’t want to. But if you do, you’d better get the tickets.”

Three hours later the two emerged from a cab in front of an imposing courthouse and followed endless lengths of unclean, tessellated pavement until they reached a door bearing the significant sign: “Marriage Licenses.” The clerk had the engraved forms out before anything coherent had been said. He was a hurried, dry little man, who appeared suffering to say, “Step lively, please!” at every pause.

“Parents or guardian’s consent?”

“I have no parents or guardian.”

“Can’t issue license to you then.”

“What?—why—why not?”

“Law of the state.”

“But I am of age!”

“Oh, yes, you can get married all right, but he can’t.”

“But what can we do?”

“Wait two years, or get a guardian and obtain his consent.” And Cupid turned firmly back to the papers on his desk.

They went out into the corridor and, finding a bench in a windowed recess, dropped helplessly down on it while Ralph gave voice to his personal opinion of the state law.

“Swearing isn’t going to help, Ralph,” said Paula decidedly. “Now we’ve got to consider everything.”

“But the old fool—when I haven’t a soul who could raise the least—”

“Yes, dear. Now suppose we take up each possibility in turn. It’s half-past twelve, and there isn’t a train back till five-twenty, too late to head off my letter to father.”

“Oh, it would be too flat!”

“And yet we don’t know a soul in this city, and we can’t stay here unmarried.”

“I was a beast, an ass, to get you into such a mess. Perhaps some sort of a minister could marry us without a license. I know they do in some states.”

“Go ask him.” But he came back dejectedly.

“Can’t be done; I ought to be hanged!”

“Well, suppose we go and get lunch. I want a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich.”

They found it near by, at a marble counter, and presently took up their problem with renewed courage.

“Of course, we can’t stay here unmarried. If we don’t find a way before five-twenty—we must go back—and father will probably take me East by the next train.”

“And quite right. I wouldn’t let my daughter marry a blithering idiot who could get her into a scrape like this.”

“I shouldn’t mind father’s rage, but I should hate his crowing. I can’t bear to be beaten like this, but of course, if you don’t try to think, we might as well go back to the station.”

“But what can thinking do against a set of darn fool state laws?” he burst out. “If I had only had the sense to set up a guardian—” He broke off at her gasp of excitement. Her eyes were fixed on space, big with a growing idea, for a breathless moment; then she turned to him radiant, both fists clenched on the counter.

“Ralph, I’ll adopt you! Anybody of age can adopt anybody who isn’t. Then I will give my consent and there we are!”

He stared at her speechlessly; then he hid his face in his hands and gave way to wild laughter.

“Have you anything against it?”

“No—no! Nothing!”

“Come on, then. We shall have to hurry.”

“The Court,” to whom they were referred for information, proved to be a huge, middle-aged, kindly person. If marriage was difficult under the state laws, adoption was comparatively easy.

“Now what is the very shortest time in which it could be done?”

“Oh, it need not take much time. A couple of weeks would be ample.”

Two pairs of dismayed eyes consulted each other.

“Couldn’t you do it in less?”

“Why, I don’t know. If the circumstances were extraordinary—”

“Couldn’t you do it before five o’clock to-day?”

“To-day?”

“We came down here to be married, but were refused a license because I am not of age, and hadn’t anybody to give consent. But if this lady, who is of age, could legally adopt me before the marriage bureau closed, then, you see, she could give the necessary consent.”

The Court laughed until his whole bulk was a heaving frame of merriment. But he was absorbed again in an instant, and after a moment’s deliberation he took down their names and ages and wrote briefly:

“And you say the child is willing?”

“He seems to be.”

Half an hour later, Paula Dennison had been formally appointed guardian of her future lord and master, and had given her written consent to his marriage. The Court himself conducted them to the license bureau, explained matters to the dry little clerk, dryer and more hurried than ever, witnessed the marriage, kissed the bride, escorted them down-stairs, and put them into a cab.

The Court was still standing to smile after the departing carriage when another came lurching up from the direction of the station. Even before it could stop, a middle-aged man had burst out and was striding up the steps with dark and concerted purpose on his flushed face. The Court stared at him, at first absently, then with dawning suspicion—chin, blue eyes, carriage—surely such a resemblance could not be a mere coincidence! After a brief hesitation he discreetly followed, and suspicion grew to conviction as the man turned to the marriage license bureau. The Court, lurking in the shadow of the open door, heard him demand whether a young woman named Dennison had tried to get married there to-day.

“Married fifteen minutes ago.”

“But they couldn’t be—the boy wasn’t of age. ’Tain’t legal. You had no right to issue a license. Why, I’ll have you—”

“The applicant had the written consent of his guardian.”

“But he hadn’t got a guardian—I found that out before I started. He was fooling you. It’s a—”

Paula’s written consent was laid before his eyes.

“The lady took out papers of guardianship, and so her consent was valid.”

“Adopted him? Adopted him and then married him! The little cuss! Adopted him, by golly! Oh, why wasn’t she a boy? Oh, well, I guess it’s all right. Adopted him! And I never thought of that!”

THE HONOR OF THE WOODS

ANONYMOUS

The principal character of this story is John Norton, an aged trapper and scout in the Adirondacks, who is adored by the people for his bravery and courage. And although he has not rowed in a race for over forty years, he has decided to enter a free for all contest, to be pulled on the Saranac. He does this, because guides have brought him word that “perfessionals” are to pull. And he thinks it would be an “eternal shame if them city boasters beat the men born in the woods and on their own waters too.” Another important character in our story is a young boy, of whom John Norton always speaks as “the Lad,” a good-hearted, simple-minded boy, whom the trapper has befriended and who worships the old man. At the hotel all is expectation. A great crowd has gathered in anticipation of the morrow’s races, for the guides had brought word that “Old John Norton was not only coming, but that he was going to enter the race.” The thought that they were going to see this celebrated man stirred the people with a feeling of intense curiosity.

In the crowd were several aged men who remembered the fame the trapper had as an oarsman fifty years ago. And one of their number closed a heated verbal debate about the merits of the various contestants with, “I tell you, sir, there ain’t a man on God’s green earth kin beat John Norton at the oars.” On the other hand the professionals had their backers—college boys, English tourists, lawyers, clergymen, and bankers. Thus stood the feeling when a boat, with the Lad at the oar and the trapper at the paddle, came out from behind an island into plain view of the hundreds that were watching for it. As the boat came on talking ceased, and amid a profound silence it drew up within fifty feet of the landing. Suddenly an old man leaning on a stout stick flourished it in the air, and exclaimed in a voice that shook with the intensity of his emotion, “John Norton, he saved my life at the battle of Salt Lakes forty years ago. Three cheers for John Norton!” Then such a cheer arose as to burst the stillness into fragments and, thrice repeated, rolled its roar across the lake and against the distant hills, until their hollow caverns resounded again, while on the instant a hundred white handkerchiefs, waved by whiter hands, sprang into sight and filled the air with their snowy flutterings. For one instant the color came and went in the face of the surprised trapper. He then arose and stood at his utmost height. Meanwhile the eyes of the great multitude had time to take in his splendid proportions, and the grave majesty of his countenance. He then settled back and the boat moved toward the landing. It was high noon on the Saranac, and a brighter day was never seen. The lake had not stirred a ripple, and the air was that cool, fragrant air so good to breathe in a race. The “free for all” was to be pulled at one o’clock. The entries were closed the evening before, and stood seven in all: the three professionals, the brother guides, known as Fred and Charley, the old trapper and the Lad.

The boats were already in position. The course ran straight down the lake to a line of seven buoys, so that each boat had its own buoy to turn around and thence pull back again. The length of the course was just four miles, a longer race by half than was ever before pulled on those waters. The boats were by no means the same length and width—the Lad’s was by far the heaviest.

The number of spectators was a wonder to all; where all the people came from was a mystery. The long piazza of the hotel, the wharf, even the roof of the boathouse swarmed with human beings. The shore on either side was lined with spectators for the distance of half a mile.

“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “ye must remember that a four-mile race is a good deal of a pull, and the goin’ off ain’t half so decidin’ as the comin’ in. I don’t conceit that we can afford to fool any time, for them perfessionals have come here to row, and they look to me as if they had a good deal of that sort of stuff in them; but it won’t do to get flustrated at the start, and if ye see fit to follow I’ll set ye a jegmatical sort of a stroke that will send us out to the buoys yonder without any rawness in the windpipe or kinks in the legs. But still if ye don’t think yer a-pullin’ fast enough take yer lick, fur in such a race as this is likely to be, a man should follow his own notions and act accordin’ to his gifts.”

“Do you think we will win, old trapper?” asked Fred. “I dunno, boy, I sartinly dunno, but I don’t like yer oars, especially that left one. There’s a kink in the shank of it that hadn’t orter be there.”

“Your oars are big enough to hold anyway and I hold you will win.”

“Thank ye, boys, thank ye; yis, I sartinly shall try, for it would be a mortal shame to have that prize to go out of the woods, an’ if nothin’ gives way I’ll give ’em a touch of the stuff that’s in me, the last mile, that’ll make ’em get down to work in earnest, but if anything happens I have great hopes of the Lad there, for his gifts are wonderful at the oars and—”

“_Ready there_,” came the clear voice of the starter; “ready there for the word.”

“Aye, aye, ready it is,” replied the trapper. “Now, Lad, if anything happens to me and you see I can’t win, John Norton will never forgive you if you don’t pull like a sinner runnin’ from jedgment.”

“Ready there, all of you; _One_, _two_, _three_, GO.”

The oars of the professionals dropped on the water as if their blades were controlled by one man, and their stroke was so tense and quick that the light boats fairly jumped ahead. The trapper and the Lad had been slower to get away and were a full length behind before they got fairly into motion. The Lad was the last to get started and so careless and ungainly was his appearance that the crowd, who cheered at the passage of the others, laughed and groaned at him. For forty rods the race continued without change in the relative position of the boats.

The oars flashed, dropped and flashed again, as the professionals swept their oars ahead. Some rods behind the trapper and Fred were rowing side by side, stroke for stroke, long, steady and strong.

“Yis, yis, I understand; but don’t ye worry, four miles is four miles. Still if yer a-gittin’ narvous we’ll lengthen out a little jest to show ’em we ain’ more’n half asleep.” So saying the old man set his comrades so long and sharply pulled a stroke that the two boats doubled their rate of speed and came up even with the boats ahead. “There now, I guess we’ll ease up a leetle, for the time to really pull ain’t come yet. I tell you, boy, that rifle is a-goin’ to stay here in the woods. There’s the Lad back there can beat us both, but he won’t try ’cause he thinks it would tickle an old man like me to win the prize. Easy, boy, easy, let ’em git ahead if they want to, the comin’ in is what decides the race.” Thus the boats rushed on their way, while the multitude watched with eager eyes the receding racers. The party of the trapper was in the ascendant, for the spurt he had made revealed the tremendous power of the man and showed that old age had not weakened his enormous strength. At last a man who stood on the edge of the boathouse called out: “They have turned the buoys; the professionals are ahead.”

“How far behind is John Norton?”

“He and the guides are four rods astern at least.”

“Where is the Lad?”

“Oh, he’s out of the race; he’s fully ten rods behind the trapper and Fred.” By this time the boats were plainly in view—the contestants were barely a mile away.

“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “the time has come for us to show the stuff that’s in us. Are ye ready for the stroke, boys?” A groan of pain interrupted the trapper. The oars of Charley were trailing—his strength had given out and his nose was bleeding profusely. “Never mind,” whispered the trapper to Fred, “you must win this race if your whole family dies—all right, long and quick now.” The young man obeyed. He threw the full force of his strength on the oars. The sudden vigor was too much for the wood; there was a crash and the guide was thrown on his side. The trapper was now thoroughly aroused. The boats were within a hundred yards of the home-line and the Lad was fully fifteen astern. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but through it a voice arose: “John Norton, now is your time, pull.”

The old man gathered himself for a supreme effort, and then occurred a catastrophe so overwhelming that it hushed the roar of the crowd. He had torn the rowlocks from the gunnels. For a moment there was silence; even the professionals intermitted a stroke; but the Lad turned his face ahead. The old man arose and stood erect in the boat. He shook the heavy oars in the air as if they had been reeds and shouted in a voice that sounded awful in its intensity: “Now, Lad, row for the sake of John Norton, and save his gray hairs from shame. Pull with every ounce of strength the Almighty has given you, or the honor of the woods is gone.”

It was worth a thousand miles of travel and a year of life to see what happened. The Lad suddenly sat erect and his stroke lengthened to the full reach of oar and arm. His boat seemed to spring into the air, it flew on the top of the water, and, as it passed the trapper, he shouted wildly, “Go it, Lad, go it, Lad, the honor of the woods be on ye! Give it to ’em, give it to ’em, ye’ll beat ’em yit, sure as judgment day.”

Except his voice, not a sound was heard. Men clutched their fists till the nails cut the skin of their palms. One of the professionals fainted unnoticed, another threw up his oars, crazed by the excitement, while the third pulled in grim desperation; but he pulled in vain, for the Lad’s boat caught him within fifty feet of the line and shot across it half a length to the front. And then there arose such a shout as had not been heard that day. “Three cheers for the Lad, three cheers for the Lad,”—and the honor of the woods was saved.

TRAVERS’ FIRST HUNT

BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

Young Travers, who had been engaged to a girl down on Long Island for the last three months, only met her father and brother a few weeks before the day set for the wedding.

The brother was a master of hounds near South Hampton; the father and son talked horse all day and until one o’clock in the morning, for they owned fast thoroughbreds, and entered them at Sheepshead Bay, and other race tracks.

Old Mr. Paddock, the father of the girl, had often said that when a young man asked for his daughter’s hand, he would ask him in return, not if he _lived_ straight, but if he could _ride_ straight; and that on his answering in the affirmative, depended her parent’s consent.

Travers had met Miss Paddock and her mother in Europe. He was invited to their place in the fall when the hunting season opened, and had spent the evening most pleasantly and satisfactorily with his fiancée in the corner of the drawing-room. But as soon as the women had gone, young Paddock joined him and said: “You ride, of course?”

Travers had never ridden, but had been prompted what to answer by Miss Paddock, and so said there was nothing he liked better. As he expressed it, he would rather ride than sleep.

“That’s good!” said Paddock. “I’ll give you a mount on Satan to-morrow morning at the meet. He is a bit nasty at the start of the season, and ever since he killed Wallis, the second groom, last year, none of us care much to ride him; but you can manage him, no _doubt_. He’ll just carry your weight.”

Mr. Travers dreamed that night of taking large, desperate leaps into space on a wild horse that snorted forth flames, and that rose at solid stone walls as though they were hay-racks. He was tempted to say he was ill in the morning, which was, considering the state of his mind, more or less true, but concluded as he would have to ride sooner or later during his visit, and if he died breaking his neck, it would be in a good cause, he determined to do his best.

He didn’t want to ride at all for two excellent reasons: First, because he wanted to live for Miss Paddock’s sake, and second, because he wanted to live for his own sake.

The next morning was a most forbidding and doleful looking morning, and young Travers had great hopes that the meet would be declared off, but just as he lay in doubts the servant knocked at his door with his riding things and his hot water.

He came down-stairs looking very miserable indeed. Satan had been taken to the place where they were to meet, and Travers viewed him on his arrival there with a sickening sense of fear as he saw him pulling three grooms off their feet.

Travers decided that he would stay with his feet on solid earth just as long as he could, and when the hounds were thrown off and the rest had started at a gallop, he waited, under pretense of adjusting his gaiters, until they were well away. Then he clenched his teeth, crammed his hat down over his ears, and scrambled up on the saddle. His feet fell _quite_ by _accident_ into the stirrups, and the next moment he was off after the others, with an indistinct feeling that he was on a locomotive that was jumping the ties.

Satan was in among and had passed the other horses in less than five minutes, and was so near the hounds that the whippers-in gave a cry of warning. But Travers could just as soon have pulled a boat back that was going over the Niagara Falls as Satan, and it was only that the hounds were well ahead that saved them from having Satan run them down.

Travers had to hold to the saddle with his left hand to keep himself from falling off, and sawed and sawed on the reins with his right. He shut his eyes whenever Satan jumped, and never knew how he happened to stick on; but he did stick on, and was so far ahead that in the misty morning no one could see how badly he rode. As it was for daring and speed he led the field, and not even young Paddock was near him from the start.

There was a broad stream in front of him—and a hill just on the other side. No one had ever tried to take this at a jump, it was considered more of a swim than anything else, and the hunters always crossed it by the bridge on the left. Travers saw the bridge and tried to jerk Satan’s head in that direction, but Satan kept right on as straight as an express train over the prairies. Fences and trees and furrows passed by and under Travers like a panorama run by electricity, and he only breathed by accident. They went on at the stream and the hill beyond as though they were riding on a stretch of turf, and though the whole field sent up a shout of warning and dismay, Travers could only gasp and shut his eyes. He remembered the fate of the second groom and shivered.

Then the horse rose like a rocket, lifting Travers so high in the air that he thought Satan would never come down again, but he did come down with his feet bunched on the opposite bank.

The next instant he was up and over the hill and stopped, panting, in the center of the pack that was snarling and snapping around the fox. And then Travers showed that he was a thorough-bred, even though he could not ride, for he hastily fumbled for his cigar case, and when the others came pounding up over the hill, they saw him seated nonchalantly on his saddle, puffing critically at his cigar and giving Satan patronizing pats on his head.

“My dear girl,” said old Mr. Paddock to his daughter as they rode back, “if you love that young man and want to keep him, make him promise to give up riding. A more reckless and more brilliant horseman I have never seen; he took that double jump at the gate and at the stream like a centaur, but he will break his neck sooner or later, and he ought to be stopped.” Young Paddock was so delighted with his future brother-in-law’s riding that that night in the smoking room he made him a present of Satan before all the men.

“No,” said Travers gloomily, “I can’t take him; your sister has asked me to give up what is dearer to me than anything next to herself, and that is my riding; you see she is absurdly anxious for my safety, and she has asked me never to ride again, and I have given my word.”

A chorus of sympathetic remonstrances rose from the men.

“Yes, I know,” said Travers, “but it just shows what sacrifices a man will make for the woman he loves.”

MARY’S NIGHT RIDE

BY GEORGE W. CABLE

Mary Richling, the heroine of this story, was the wife of John Richling, a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of New Orleans, she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband, and decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with her her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward, where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally determined to break through the lines.

About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in the black shadow of a great oak. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there emerged from the shadow of woods on either side and divided into a main right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary’s left. Off in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness.

She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next moment a man came out of the bushes on the left and, without a word, took the bridle of the led horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle. The hand that rested for a moment on the cantle grasped a navy-six. He was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the lesser road.

“If we’d of gone three hundred yards further, we’d a run into the pickets. I went nigh enough to see the videts settin’ on their horses in the main road. This here ain’t no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I’ve got one of the niggers to show us the way.”

“Where is he?” whispered Mary, but, before her companion could answer, a tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a clear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging strides of the negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his arms, and directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle with her skirts gathered carefully under her; so they went down into the cold stream, the negro first with arms outstretched above the flood, then Mary and then the white man, or let us say plainly the spy, with the unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark guide.

Again they followed him along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of housedogs, now the doleful call of the chuckwill’s widow, and once Mary’s blood turned for an instant to ice at the unearthly shriek of a hoot-owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, narrow road, and the negro stopped.

“Dess keep dis yer road fo’ ’bout half mile an’ yo’ strike ’pon de broad main road. Tek de right, an’ you go whar yo’ fancy take you. Good-by, Miss. Good-by, Boss; don’t yo’ fergit yo’ promise to tek me throo to de Yankees when you come back. I feered yo’ gwine fergit it, Boss.”

The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half mile was soon passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length Mary’s companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the rear, and said softly, “There’s the road.”

As they entered it and turned to the right, Mary, with Alice in her arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position when a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway, snatched a carbine from the earth and cried, “Halt!”

The dark, recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen enveloped in their blankets lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened look backward and met the eye of her companion.

“Move a little faster,” said he, in a low, clear voice. As he did so, she heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly after hers.

“Don’t stop us, my friend; we’re taking a sick child to the doctor.”

“Halt, you hound!” the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an agony, rise in his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and wildly cry, “Go!” She smote her horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed.

The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and there went close by Mary’s ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the same moment she recognized—once, twice, thrice—just at her back, where the hoofs of her companion’s horse were clattering, the tart rejoinders of his navy six.

“Go! lay low! lay low! cover the child!” But his words were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and sunbonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, Mary was riding for life and liberty and her husband’s bedside.

“Go on! go on! They’re saddling up! Go! Go! We’re going to make it! Go-oo!” And they made it.

PEABODY’S LEAP

A LEGEND OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

Many are the places, scattered over the face of our beautiful country, whose wild and picturesque scenery is worthy of the painter’s pencil or the poet’s pen. Some of them, which were once celebrated for their rich stores of “legendary lore,” are now only sought to view their natural scenery, while the traditions which formerly gave them celebrity are buried in oblivion. Such is the scene of the following adventure—a romantic glen, bounded on the north side by a high and rocky hill which stretches itself some distance into Lake Champlain, terminating in a precipice, some thirty feet in height, and once known by the name of “Peabody’s Leap.”

At the time of this adventure, Timothy Peabody was the only white man that lived within fifty miles of the place, and his was the daring spirit that achieved it. In an attack on one of the frontier settlements his family had all been massacred by the merciless savages, and he had sworn that their death should be avenged. The better to accomplish this dread purpose, he had removed to this solitary place and constructed the rude shelter in which he dwelt, till the blasts of winter drove him to the homes of his fellow-men, again to renew the contest when spring had awakened nature into life and beauty. He was a man who possessed much rude cunning, combined with a thorough knowledge of Indian habits, by which he had always been enabled to avoid the snares of his subtle enemies. Often when they had come with a party to take him, he escaped their lures, and after destroying his hut, on their return homeward some of their boldest warriors were picked off by his unerring aim—or, on arriving at their settlement, they learned that one of their swiftest hunters had been ambushed by him, and fallen a victim of his deadly rifle. He had lived in this way for several years, and had so often baffled them, that they had at last become weary of the pursuit, and, for some time, had left him unmolested.

About this time, a party of Indians made a descent on one of the small settlements, and had taken three men prisoners, whom they were carrying home to sacrifice for the same number of their men that had been shot by Peabody. It was towards the close of day when they passed his abode; most of the party in advance of the prisoners, who, with their hands tied, and escorted by five or six Indians, were almost wearied out by their long march, and but just able to crawl along. He had observed this advance guard, and let them pass unmolested, for he suspected there were prisoners in the rear, and intended to try some “Yankee trick” to effect their rescue. He accordingly followed on in the trail of the party, keeping among the thick trees which on either side skirted the path. He had proceeded but a short distance before he heard the sharp report of a rifle apparently very near him, and which he knew must be one of the Indians who had strolled from the main body to procure some game for their evening meal. From his acquaintance with their habits and language, he only needed a disguise to enable him to join with the party if necessary and, aided by the darkness which was fast approaching, with but little danger of detection. The resolution was quickly formed, and as quickly put into operation, to kill this Indian and procure his dress.

He had got but a few paces before he discovered his intended victim, who had just finished loading his rifle. To stand forth and boldly confront him would give the savage an equal chance, and if Tim proved the best shot, the party on hearing the report of two rifles at once would be alarmed and commence a pursuit. The chance was, therefore, two to one against him, and he was obliged to contrive a way to make the Indian fire first. Planting himself, then, behind a large tree, he took off his fox-skin cap, and placing it on the end of his rifle, began to move it to and fro. The Indian quickly discovered it, and was not at a loss to recollect the owner by the cap. Knowing how often the white warrior had eluded them, he determined to despatch him at once, and without giving him notice of his dangerous proximity, he instantly raised his rifle, and its contents went whizzing through the air. The ball just touched the bark of the tree, and pierced the cap, which rose suddenly like the death-spring of the beaver, and then fell amid the bushes. The Indian, like a true sportsman, thinking himself sure of his victim, did not go to pick up his game till he had reloaded his piece, and dropping it to the ground, was calmly proceeding in the operation, when Timothy as calmly stepped from his hiding-place, exclaiming—“Now, you tarnal kritter, say yer prayers as fast as ever you can.”

This was a short notice for the poor Indian. Before him, and scarcely ten paces distant, stood the tall form of Peabody, motionless as a statue—his rifle to his shoulder—his finger on the trigger, and his deadly aim firmly fixed on him. He was about to run, but he had not time to turn around, ere the swift-winged messenger had taken his flight; the ball pierced his side—he sprang in the air, and fell lifeless on the ground.

No time was now to be lost. Peabody immediately proceeded to strip the dead body and to array himself in the accouterments, consisting of a hunting shirt, a pair of moccasins, or leggins, and the wampum belt and knife. A little of the blood besmeared on his sunburnt countenance served for the red paint, and it would have taken a keen eye in the gray twilight and thick gloom of the surrounding forest to have detected the counterfeit Indian. Shouldering his rifle, he again started in pursuit, and followed the band till they arrived in the glen, where their canoes were secreted. Here they stopped, and began to make preparations for their expected supper, previous to their embarkation for the opposite shore. The canoes were launched and their baggage deposited in them. A fire was blazing brightly and the party were walking around, impatiently waiting the return of the hunter.

The body of Timothy was safely deposited behind a fallen tree, where he could see every motion, and hear every word spoken in the circle. Here he had been about half an hour. Night had drawn her sable curtain around the scene or, in other words, it was dark. The moon shone fitfully through the clouds which almost covered the horizon, only serving occasionally to render the darkness visible. The Indians now began to evince manifest signs of impatience for the return of their comrade. They feared that a party of the whites had followed them and taken him prisoner, and at last resolved to go in search of him. The plan, which was fortunately overheard by Timothy, was to put the captives into one of the canoes, under the care of five of their number, who were to secrete themselves in case of an attack, massacre the prisoners, and then go to the assistance of their brethren.

As soon as the main body had started, Peabody cautiously crept from his hiding-place to the water and, sliding in feet foremost, moved along on his back, his face just above the surface, to the canoe which contained the rifles of the guard. The priming was quickly removed from these, and their powder-horns emptied, replaced, and the prisoners given notice of their intended rescue, at the same time warning them not to show themselves above the gunwale till they were in safety. He next, with his Indian knife, separated the thong which held the canoe to the shore, intending to swim off with it till he had got far enough to avoid observation, then get in, and paddle for the nearest place where a landing could be effected. All this was but the work of a moment, and he was slowly moving off from the shore, as yet unobserved by the guard, who little expected an attack from this side. But, unfortunately, his rifle had been left behind, and he was resolved not to part with “Old Plumper,” as he called it, without at least one effort to recover it. He immediately gave the captives notice of his intention, and directed them to paddle slowly and silently out, and in going past the headland, to approach as near as possible, and there await his coming.

The guard by this time had secreted themselves, and one of the number had chosen the same place which Timothy himself had previously occupied, near which he had left his old friend. He had almost got to the spot, when the Indian discovered the rifle, grasped it, and springing upon his feet, gave the alarm to his companions. Quick as thought, Tim was upon him, seized the rifle, and wrenched it from him with such violence as to throw him breathless to the ground. The rest of the Indians were alarmed, and, sounding the war-whoop, rushed upon him.

It was a standard maxim with Timothy, that “a good soldier never runs till he is obliged to,” and he now found that he should be under the necessity of suiting his practice to his theory. There was no time for deliberation; he instantly knocked down the foremost with the butt of his rifle, and bounded away through the thicket like a startled deer. The three remaining Indians made for the canoe in which the rifles were deposited, already rendered harmless by the precaution of Timothy. This gave him a good advantage, which was not altogether unnecessary, as he was much encumbered with his wet clothes, and before he reached the goal he could hear them snapping the dry twigs close behind him. The main body likewise got the alarm, and were but a short distance from him when he reached the headland. Those who were nearest he did not fear, unless they came to close action, and he resolved to send one more of them to his long home before he leaped from the precipice.

“It’s a burning shame to wet so much powder,” he exclaimed; “I’ll have one more pop at the tarnal red-skins.” Tim’s position was quickly arranged to put his threat in execution. His rifle was presented, his eye glanced along its barrel, and the first one that showed his head received its deadly contents. Another, and still another Indian, were thus disposed of, and then, taking a deep breath, Timothy made the leap. The water was deep and it seemed a long time before he came to the surface, but in a moment he struck out for the canoe. The whole party of Indians by this time had come up, and commenced a brisk fire upon the fugitives. Tim stood erect in the canoe, shouting in the voice of a stentor, “Ye’d better take care, ye’ll spile the skiff. Old Plumper’s safe, and you’ll feel him yet, I tell ye!”

Peabody and the rescued prisoners were quickly lost in darkness, and, taking a small circuit, effected a landing in safety. Many a man’s life verified his last threat, and Peabody lived to a good old age, having often related to his friends and neighbors the adventure which gave to this place the name of “Peabody’s Leap.”

DONA MARIA’S DEFIANCE

[Philip the Second, king of Spain, murdered his own brother, Don John of Austria. Dona Maria Dolores de Mendoza, betrothed to the slain man, discovers that her innocent father has taken the blame upon himself for this atrocious crime in order that his king might not be branded before the eyes of the world. Thus the beautiful woman comes before her king with a great purpose: First, to have her father released from prison; and second, to express her personal hatred for the murderer of her lover. The king is alone when she enters.]

_Philip._ Be seated, Dona Dolores. I am glad that you have come, for I have much to say to you and some questions to ask of you. In my life I have suffered more than most men in being bereaved of the persons to whom I have been most sincerely attached. One after another those that I have loved have been taken from me, until I am almost alone in the world that is so largely mine. My sorrows have reached their crown and culmination to-day in the death of my dear brother. I know why you have come to me; you wish to intercede for your father. It is right that you come to me yourself.

_Dona Dolores._ I ask justice, not mercy, sire.

_Philip._ Your father shall have both, for they are compatible.

_Dona Dolores._ He needs no mercy, for he has done no wrong. Your majesty knows that as well as I.

_Philip._ I cannot guess what you know or do not know.

_Dona Dolores._ I know the truth.

_Philip._ I wish I did. Tell me; you may be able to help me sift it. What do you know?

_Dona Dolores._ I was close behind the door. I heard every word. I heard your sword drawn and I heard Don John fall, and then it was some time before I heard my father’s voice taking the blame upon himself lest it should be said that a king had murdered his own brother in his room unarmed. Is that the truth, or not? I came in and found him dead. He was unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life, and my father took the blame to save you from the monstrous accusation. Confess that what I say is true. I am a Spanish woman and would not see my country branded before the world with the shame of your royal murders; and if you will confess and save my father I will keep your secret for my country’s sake. If you will not, by the God that made you I will tell all Spain what you are, and the men who loved Don John of Austria will rise and take your blood for his blood, though it be blood royal, and you shall die as you killed, like the coward you are. You will not? Then—

_Philip._ No, No! Stay here; you must not go. What do you want me to say?

_Dona Dolores._ Say, “You have spoken the truth.”

_Philip._ Stay—yes—it is true—I did it—for Spain—For God’s mercy do not betray me.

_Dona Dolores._ That is not all. That was for me, that I might hear the words from your own lips.

_Philip._ What more do you want of me?

_Dona Dolores._ My father’s freedom and safety. I must have an order for his instant release. Send for him. Let him come here at once as a free man.

_Philip._ That is impossible. He has confessed the deed before the whole court. He must at least have a trial. You forget to whom you are speaking.

_Dona Dolores._ I am not asking anything of your majesty. I am dictating terms to my lover’s murderer.

_Philip._ You shall not impose your insolence on me any further. I shall call help—

_Dona Dolores._ Call whom you will, you cannot save yourself. In ten minutes there will be a revolution in the palace, and to-morrow all Spain will be on fire to avenge your brother. Spain has not forgotten Don Carlos yet. You tortured him to death. There are those alive who saw you give Queen Isabel the draught that killed her—with your own hand. Are you mad enough to think that no one knows these things; that your spies who spy on others do not spy on you; that you alone of all mankind can commit every crime with impunity?

_Philip._ Take care, girl! Take care!

_Dona Dolores._ Beware, Don Philip of Austria, King of Spain and half the world, lest a girl’s voice be heard above yours, and a girl’s hand loosen the foundations of your throne. Outside this door are men who guess the truth already; who hate you as they hate Satan; and who loved your brother as every living being loved him, except you. One moment more. Order my father to be set free, or I will open and speak. One moment! You will not? It is too late—you are lost.... If you ring that bell, I will open the door. Bring the order here where I am safe. I must read it myself before I am satisfied. [_Philip writes order._] I humbly thank your majesty and take my leave.—This scene is arranged from the novel “In the Palace of the King,” by Marion Crawford.

THE KING AND THE POET

[François Villon, the poet, fought and severely wounded the traitorous Grand Constable of France, Thibaut d’Aussigny. King Louis XI, in a whimsical mood, had the poet elevated to his opponent’s station instead of having him cast into prison and sentenced to death. Lady Katherine, hearing that François had fought with Thibaut d’Aussigny, whom she hates for his many protestations of love, and knowing that the penalty was death, pleads for the poet’s life at the feet of him whom she supposes to be the new Grand Constable, but who after all is none other than her own true lover.]

(_The morning after his visit to the Fircone Tavern, Louis sat in his rose-garden, pondering upon his strange adventure of the night before. A favorite astrologer had interpreted his dream to mean that one in the depths, if exalted, would be of great service to him. He knew how precarious his position was, how unpopular he was with the people, how strong were the forces of the Duke of Burgundy, how little he could depend upon the allegiance of the people of Paris if once the enemy set foot within the capital city. His encounter with Villon coming upon the heels of his strange dream, and followed by the vague prophecies of the star-gazer, made him believe that the fantastic rhymester was sent to him in a time of peril to be of support to his throne._

_A heavy tread behind him stirred him from his meditations. Turning, he beheld the companion of his adventure the previous evening._)

_King._ Well, Tristan?

_Tristan._ The bird has flown, sire. Thibaut’s wound was much slighter than we thought last night. After we carried him to his house, he made his escape thence in disguise, and has, as I believe, fled from Paris to join the Duke of Burgundy.

_King._ I wish the Duke joy of him. He is more dangerous to my enemy when he is on my enemy’s side. And my rival for loyalty?

_Tristan._ Barber Oliver has charge of him. I would have hanged the rogue out of hand.

_King._ The stars warn me that I need this rhyming ragamuffin.

_Tristan._ Are you going to let him think he is king, sire?

_King._ Not quite. When he wakes, he is to be assured that he is the Count of Montcorbier and Grand Constable of France. His antics may amuse me, his lucky star may serve me, and his winning tongue may help to avenge me on a certain forward maid, who disdained me. Send me here Oliver. [_Exit Tristan._]

[_Katherine comes slowly down one of the rose-ways._]

_King._ Where are you going, girl?

_Katherine._ To her majesty, sire, who bade me gather roses.

_King._ You are a pretty child. You might have had a king’s love. Well, well, you were a fool. Does not Thibaut woo you?

_Katherine._ He professes to love me, sire, and I profess to hate him.

_King._ He was sorely wounded last night in a tavern scuffle.

_Katherine._ Only wounded, sire?

_King._ Your solicitude is adorable. Be of cheer. He may recover. And we have clapped hands on the assassin. He shall pay the penalty.

_Katherine._ This man should not die, sire. Thibaut d’Aussigny was a traitor, a villain—

_King._ If this knave’s life interests you, plead for it to my lord the Grand Constable.

_Katherine._ Thibaut is pitiless.

_King._ Thibaut is no longer in office. Try your luck with his successor.

_Katherine._ His name, sire?

_King._ He is the Count of Montcorbier. He is a stranger in our court, but he has found a lodging in my heart. He came under safe conduct from the south last night. I believe he will serve me well, and I am sure he will always be lenient to loveliness. Now go, girl, or my wife and your queen will be wanting her roses. [_Exit Katherine._]

[_Glancing up the terrace, he perceives the figure of Oliver. Behind Oliver comes a little cluster of pages, and behind them again the king can see a shining figure in cloth of gold._]

_King._ Here comes my mountebank as pompous as if he were born to the purple. It would be rare sport if Mistress Katherine disdained Louis to decline upon this beggar. He shall hang for mocking me. But he carries himself like a king for all his tatters and patches, and he shall taste of splendor.

[_As the little procession descends the steps into the rose-garden the king moves swiftly to the door of the tower and enters. There is a little grating in the door, and through this grating the king now peers with infinite entertainment of the comedy himself had planned._]

[_Master Villon is greatly changed. The barber’s own handiwork has cleansed and shaved his countenance. He is as sumptuously attired as if he were a prince of the blood royal. It is plain that the tricked out poet is in a desperate dilemma. He manages to bear himself with dignity that consorts with his pomp._]

_Oliver._ Will your dignity deign to linger awhile in this rose-arbor?

_François._ My dignity will deign to do anything you suggest.

_Oliver._ May we take our leave, monseigneur?

_François._ You may, you may—stay one moment. You know this plaguy memory of mine—what a forgetful fellow I am. Would you mind telling me again who I happen to be?

_Oliver._ You are the Count of Montcorbier, monseigneur. You have just arrived in Paris from the court of Provence, where you stood in high favor with the king of that country, but your favor is, I believe, greater with the king of France, for he has been pleased to make you Grand Constable of France. It is his majesty’s wish that you contrive to remember this.

_François._ Of course, it was most foolish of me to forget. Now, I suppose, good master long-toes, that a person in my exalted rank has a good deal of power, influence, authority, and what not?

_Oliver._ With the king’s favor, you are the first man in the realm.

_François._ Quite so! Good sir, will you straightway dispatch some one you can trust with a handful of these broad pieces to the mother of Villon, a poor old woman sorely plagued with a scapegrace son? Let him seek her out and give her these coins that she may buy herself food, clothes and fire.

_Oliver._ It shall be done. [_Exit all but François._]

[_As soon as Villon finds himself alone he looks cautiously around him and tries to recall the events of the evening before, which for some fantastic reason seems to lie centuries behind him._]

_François._ Last night I was a red-handed outlaw, sleeping on the straw of a dungeon. To-day I wake in a royal bed and my varlets call me _Monseigneur_. Either I am mad or I am dreaming. I do not think I am mad, for I know in my heart that I am poor François Villon, penniless Master of Arts, and no will-o’-the-wisp Grand Constable. Then I am dreaming, and everything has been and is a dream. Then the king—popping up at the last moment, like a Jack-in-the-box—a dream. These clothes, these servants, this garden—dreams, dreams, dreams. I shall wake presently and be devilish cold, hungry and shabby.

[_He goes to the golden flagon on the table, pours out a full cup of Burgundy, and watches it glow in the sunlight._]

_François._ To the loveliest lady this side of heaven! By heaven, my eyes dazzle, for I believe I see her!

[_On the terrace the fair girl leans and looks over at the garden and its golden occupant._]

_Oliver._ My lord, there is a lady there who desires to speak with you.

_François._ I desire to speak with her.

[_Oliver enters the palace, and Katherine approaches Villon._]

_Katherine._ My lord, will you listen to a distressed lady?

_François._ She does not know me.

_Katherine._ There is a man in prison at this hour for whom I would implore your clemency. His name is François Villon. Last night he wounded Thibaut d’Aussigny. The penalty is death. But Thibaut was a traitor, sold to Burgundy.

_François._ Did this Villon fight him for his treason?

_Katherine._ No! He fought for the sake of a woman.

_François._ How do you know all this?

_Katherine._ Because I was the woman. This man had seen me, thought he loved me, sent me verses—.

_François._ How insolent!

_Katherine._ It was insolence—and yet they were beautiful verses. I was in mortal fear of Thibaut. I went to this Villon and begged him to kill my enemy. He backed his love-tale with his sword—and he lies in the shadow of death. It is not just that he should suffer for my sin.

_François._ Do you by any chance love this Villon?

_Katherine._ Great ladies do not love tavern bravos. But I pity him and I do not want him to die.

_François._ If I had stood in this rascal’s shoes, I would have done as he did for your sake.

_Katherine._ If you think this, you should grant the poor knave his freedom.

_François._ That brother of ballads shall go free. We will do no more than banish him from Paris. Forget that such a slave ever came near you.

_Katherine._ I shall remember your clemency.

_François._ By Saint Venus, I envy this fellow that he should have won your thoughts. I, too, would die to serve you!

_Katherine._ My lord, you do not know me.

_François._ Did he know you? Yet when he saw you he loved you and made bold to tell you so.

_Katherine._ His words were of no more account than the wind in the leaves. But you and I are peers and the words we change have meanings.

_François._ Would you pity me if I told you I love you?

_Katherine._ Heaven’s mercy, how fast your fancy gallops. I care little to be flattered and less to be wooed, and I swear that I should be very hard to win.

_François._ I have more to try than your tap-room bandit. I see what he saw; I love what he loved.

_Katherine._ You are very inflammable.

_François._ My fire burns to ashes. You can no more stay me from loving you than you can stay the flowers from loving the soft air, or true men from loving honor, or heroes from loving glory. I would rake the moon from heaven for you.

_Katherine._ That promise has grown rusty since Adam first made it to Eve. There is a rhyme in my mind about moons and lovers:

Life is unstable, Love may uphold; Fear goes in sable, Courage in gold.

Mystery covers Midnight and noon, Heroes and lovers Cry for the moon.

_François._ What doggerel!

_Katherine._ It is divinity.

_François._ Tell me what I may do to win your favor?

_Katherine._ A trifle. Save France! Oh, that a man would come to court! For the man who shall trail the banners of Burgundy in the dust for the king of France to walk on I may perhaps have favors.

_François._ You are hard to please.

_Katherine._ My hero must have every virtue for his wreath, every courage for his coronet. Farewell. [_Exit Lady Katherine._]

[_Enter King Louis._]

_King._ Good afternoon, Lord Constable. Does power taste well?

_François._ Nobly, sire! On my knees let me thank your majesty.

_King._ Nonsense, man; I’m pleasing myself. You sang yourself into splendor. “_If François were the king of France_,” eh?

_François._ Sire, I will serve you as never king was served.

_King._ I will make you Grand Constable for a week.

_François._ A week, sire? A week—

_King._ Even so. One wonderful week, seven delirious days. The world was made in seven days. Seven days of power, seven days of splendor, seven days of love.

_François._ And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and the brothel!

_King._ No, no, not exactly! You don’t taste the full force of the joke yet. Your last task as Grand Constable will be to hang François Villon.

_François._ Sire, sire, have pity!

_King._ You may have your week of wonder if you wish, but if you do, by my word as king, you shall swing for it.

_François._ Sire, what have I done that you should torture me thus?

_King._ You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can’t get off scot free.

_François._ Heaven help me! Life, squalid, sordid, but still life, with its tavern corners and its brute pleasures of food and drink and warm sleep, living hands to hold, and living laughter to gladden me—or a week of cloth of gold, of glory, of love—and then a shameful death!

_King._ One further chance, fellow. If the Count Montcorbier win the heart of Lady Katherine within the week, he shall escape the gallows and carry his lady love where he please.

_François._ On your word of honor, sire?

_King._ My word is my honor, Master François. Well?

_François._ Give me my week of wonders though I die a dog’s death at the end of it. I will show France and her what lay in the heart of a poor rhymester.

_King._ Spoken like a man! But remember, a bargain’s a bargain. If you fail to win the lady you must keep yourself for the gallows. I give you the moon, but I want my price for it.

[_Enter Oliver._]

_Oliver._ Sire, the Burgundian herald attends under a flag of truce with a message for your majesty.

_King_. We will receive him here, Oliver. We need air when we hold speech with Burgundy. [_Exit Oliver._]

_King._ Listen well to this man’s words, my Lord Constable.

[_Enter Messenger._]

_King._ Your message, sir?

_Herald._ In the name of the Duke of Burgundy and of his allies and brothers-in-arms assembled outside the walls of Paris, I hereby summon you, Louis of France, to surrender this city unconditionally and to yield yourself in confidence to my master’s mercy.

_King._ And if we refuse, Sir Herald?

_Herald._ The worst disasters of war, fire and sword and famine, and no hope for yourself.

_King._ Great words. The Count of Montcorbier, Constable of France, is my counselor. His voice delivers my mind. Speak, friend, and give this messenger his answer.

_François._ As I will, sire?

_King._ Yes, go on, go on. “_If Villon were the king of France._”

_François._ Herald of Burgundy, in God’s name and the king’s, I bid you go back to your master and say this: “Kings are great in the eyes of their people, but the people are great in the eyes of God. The people of Paris are not so poor of spirit that they fear the croak of the Burgundian ravens. When we who eat are hungry, when we who drink are dry, when we who glow are frozen, when there is neither bite on the board nor sup in the pitcher nor spark upon the hearth, our answer to rebellious Burgundy will be the same. You are knocking at our doors, beware lest we open them. We give you back defiance for defiance, menace for menace, blow for blow. This is our answer—this and the drawn sword.”

[_Enter Katherine while he is speaking._]

_Katherine._ My Lord, with my lips the women of France thank you for your words of flame.

_King._ Mistress, what does this mean?

_Katherine._ It means, sire, that a man has come to court.—This scene is arranged from Justin Huntly McCarthy’s novel, “If I Were King.”

THE BISHOP AND THE CONVICT

BY VICTOR HUGO

That evening, after his walk in the town, the Bishop of D— remained quite late in his room. At eight o’clock he was still at work, writing with some inconvenience on little slips of paper, with a large book open on his knees, when Mme. Magloire, as usual, came in to take the silver from the panel by the bed. A moment after, the bishop, knowing that the table was laid, and that his sister was perhaps waiting, closed his book and went into the dining-room.

Just as the bishop entered Mme. Magloire was speaking with some warmth. It was a discussion on the means of fastening the front door.

It seems that while Mme. Magloire was out making provisions for supper she had heard the news in sundry places. There was talk that an ill-favored runaway, a suspicious vagabond, had arrived and was lurking somewhere near the town, and that it was the part of wise people to secure their doors thoroughly.

“Brother, do you hear what Mme. Magloire says?”

“I heard something of it indistinctly,” said the bishop. Then, turning his chair half round, putting his hands on his knees, and raising toward the old servant his cordial and good-humored face, which the firelight shone upon, he said: “Well, well, what is the matter! Are we in any great danger?”

Then Mme. Magloire began her story again, unconsciously exaggerating it a little. It appeared that a barefooted gypsy man, a sort of dangerous beggar, was in the town. A man with a knapsack and a rope and a terrible-looking face.

“Indeed!” said the bishop.

“We say that this house is not safe at all; and, if monseigneur will permit me, I will go out and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and put the old bolts in the door again; they are there, and it will take but a minute. I say we must have bolts, were it only for to-night; for I say that a door that opens with a latch on the outside to the first comer, nothing could be more horrible; and then monseigneur has the habit of always saying: ‘Come in’ even at midnight. But, my goodness, there is no need to even ask leave—”

The door opened.

It opened quickly, quite wide, as if pushed by some one boldly and with energy.

A man entered.

He came in, took one step, and paused, leaving the door open behind him. He had his knapsack on his back, his stick in his hand, and a rough, hard, tired, and fierce look in his eyes, as seen by the firelight. He was hideous. It was an apparition of ill omen.

Mme. Magloire had not even the strength to scream. She stood, trembling, with her mouth open.

Mdlle. Baptistine turned, saw the man enter, and started out half alarmed; then, slowly turning back again toward the fire, she looked at her brother, and her face resumed its usual calmness and serenity.

“See here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict; I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was set free, and started for Pontarlier, which is my destination; during these four days I have walked from Toulon. To-day I have walked twelve leagues. When I reached this place this evening I went to an inn, and they sent me away on account of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the mayor’s office, as was necessary. I went to another inn; they said: ‘Get out!’ It was the same with one as with another; no one would have me. I went to the prison and the turnkey would not let me in. I crept into a dog-kennel, the dog bit me, and drove me away as if he had been a man; you would have said that he knew who I was. I went into the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I thought it would rain, and there was no good God to stop the drops, so I came back to the town to get the shelter of some doorway. There in the square I lay down upon a stone; a good woman showed me your house, and said: ‘Knock there!’ I have knocked. What is this place? Are you an inn? I have money; my savings, one hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous, which I have earned in the galleys by my work for nineteen years. I will pay. What do I care? I have money. I am very tired—twelve leagues on foot—and I am so hungry. Can I stay?”

“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put on another plate.”

The man took three steps and came near the lamp which stood on the table. “Stop,” he exclaimed, as if he had not been understood, “not that, did you understand me? I am a galley slave—a convict—I am just from the galleys.” He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded. “There is my passport, yellow, as you see. That is enough to have me kicked out wherever I go. Will you read it? I know how to read, I do. I learned in the galleys. There is a school there for those who care for it. See, see, here is what they have put in my passport: ‘Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys; five years for burglary; fourteen years for having attempted four times to escape. This man is very dangerous.’ There you have it! Everybody has thrust me out; will you receive me? Is this an inn? Can you give me something to eat and a place to sleep? Have you a stable?”

“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put some sheets on the bed in the alcove.”

Mme. Magloire went out to fulfill her orders.

“Monsieur, sit down and warm yourself; we are going to take supper presently, and your bed will be made ready while you sup.”

“True? What? You will keep me? You won’t drive me away—a convict? You call me monsieur and don’t say, ‘Get out, dog!’ as every one else does. I thought that you would send me away, so I told first off who I am. I shall have a supper? A bed like other people? With mattress and sheets—a bed? It is nineteen years that I have not slept on a bed. M. Innkeeper, what is your name? I will pay all you say. You are an innkeeper, ain’t you?”

“I am a priest who lives here.”

“A priest, oh, noble priest! Then you do not ask any money?”

“No, keep your money. How much have you?”

“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous.”

“And how long did it take you to earn that?”

“Nineteen years.”

Mme. Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.

“Mme. Magloire, put this plate as near the fire as you can. The night wind is raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur.”

Every time he said the word monsieur with his gently solemn and heartily hospitable voice the man’s countenance lighted up. Monsieur to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea.

“The lamp gives a very poor light.”

Mme. Magloire understood him, and going to his bed-chamber, took from the mantel the two silver candlesticks, lighted the candles and placed them on the table.

“M. l’Curé, you are good; you don’t despise me. You take me into your house; you light your candles for me, and I haven’t hid from you where I came from, and how miserable I am.”

“You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house of Christ. It does not ask any comer whether he has a name, but whether he has an affliction. You are suffering; you are hungry and thirsty; be welcome. And do not thank me; do not tell me that I take you into my house. This is the home of no man except him who needs an asylum. I tell you, who are a traveler, that you are more at home here than I; whatever is here is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me, I knew it.”

“Really? You knew my name?”

“Yes, your name is my brother. You have seen much suffering.”

“Oh, the red blouse, the ball and chain, the plank to sleep on, the heat, the cold, the galley’s screw, the lash, the double chain for nothing, the dungeon for a word—even when sick in bed, the chain. The dogs, the dogs are happier! nineteen years! and I am forty-six, and now a yellow passport. That is all.”

“Yes, you have left a place of suffering. But listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred good men. If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger against men, you are worthy of compassion; if you leave it with good will, gentleness and peace, you are better than any of us.”

Meantime Mme. Magloire had served up supper. The bishop said the blessing and then served. The man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity of a starving man.

After having said goodnight to his sister, the bishop took one of the silver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his guest, and said to him: “Monsieur, I will show you to your room.”

The man followed him.

The house was so arranged that one could reach the alcove in the oratory only by passing through the bishop’s sleeping-chamber. Just as they were passing through this room Mme. Magloire was putting up the silver in the cupboard at the head of the bed. It was the last thing she did every night before going to bed.

The bishop left his guest wishing him a good night’s rest.

As the cathedral clock struck two, Jean Valjean awoke. He opened his eyes and looked for a moment into the obscurity about him, then he closed them to go to sleep again. But he could not get to sleep again, so he began to think. He remembered noticing the six silver plates and the large ladle that Mme. Magloire had put on the table.

Those six silver plates took possession of him. There they were within a few steps. At the very moment that he passed through the middle room to reach the one he was now in, the old servant was placing them in a little cupboard at the head of the bed. He had marked that cupboard well; on the right coming from the dining-room. They were solid and old silver. With the big ladle they would bring at least two hundred francs; double what he had got for nineteen years’ labor.

His mind wavered a whole hour and a long one, in fluctuation and in struggle. The clock struck three. He opened his eyes, rose up hastily in bed, reached out his arm and felt his knapsack, which he had put into the corner of the alcove, then he thrust out his legs and put his feet on the floor and found himself, he knew not how, seated on his bed. All at once he stooped down, took off his shoes and put them softly upon the mat in front of the bed, then he resumed his thinking posture and was still again. Then he rose to his feet, hesitated for a moment longer and listened; all was still in the house; he walked straight and cautiously toward the window which he could discern. The night was very dark, there was a full moon. On reaching the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It had no bars, opened into the garden, and was fastened with only a little wedge. He took his club in his right hand, and, holding his breath, with stealthy steps he moved toward the door of the next room, which was the bishop’s, as we know. On reaching the door he found it unlatched. The bishop had not closed it.

Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound.

He pushed the door. A rusty hinge suddenly sent out into the darkness a harsh and prolonged creak.

Jean Valjean shivered. He took one step and was in the room. At the moment when he passed the bed, a cloud broke, as if purposely, and a ray of moonlight crossing the high window, suddenly lighted up the bishop’s pale face. He slept tranquilly. His entire countenance was lit up with a vague expression of content, hope and happiness. It was more than a smile and almost a radiance.

Jean Valjean was in the shadow with the iron drill in his hand, erect, motionless, terrified at this radiant figure. He had never seen anything comparable to it. This confidence filled him with fear. He did not remove his eyes from the old man. He appeared ready either to cleave his skull or to kiss his hand.

In a few moments he raised his left hand slowly to his forehead and took off his hat; then letting his hand fall with the same slowness, Jean Valjean resumed his contemplations, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right, and his hair bristling on his fierce-looking head.

Under this frightful gaze the bishop still slept in profoundest peace.

The crucifix above the mantel-piece was dimly visible in the moonlight, apparently extending its arms toward both, with a benediction for one and a pardon for the other.

Suddenly Jean Valjean put on his cap, then passed quickly, without looking at the bishop, along the bed, straight to the cupboard which he perceived near its head; he raised the drill to force the lock; the key was in it; he opened it; the first thing he saw was the basket of silver; he took it, crossed the room with hasty stride, careless of noise, reached the door, entered the oratory, took his stick, stepped out, put the silver in his knapsack, threw away the basket, ran across the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger and fled.

The next day at sunrise the bishop was walking in the garden. Mme. Magloire ran toward him quite beside herself.

“Monseigneur, the man has gone! The silver is stolen. The abominable fellow! He has stolen our silver!”

The bishop was silent for a moment then, raising his serious eyes, he said mildly to Mme. Magloire: “Now, first, did this silver belong to us? Mme. Magloire, I have for a long time withheld this silver; it belonged to the poor. Who was this man? A poor man evidently.”

“Alas! Alas!” returned Mme. Magloire. “It is not on my account or mademoiselle’s; it is all the same to us. But it is on yours, monseigneur. What is monsieur going to eat from now?”

The bishop looked at her in amazement.

“How so! have we no tin plates?”

Just as the brother and sister were rising from their breakfast there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said the bishop.

The door opened. A strange, fierce group appeared on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth by the collar. The three men were gendarmes; the fourth, Jean Valjean.

In the meantime the bishop had approached as quickly as his great age permitted. “Ah, there you are!” said he, looking toward Jean Valjean. “I am glad to see you. But I gave you the candlesticks also, which are silver like the rest, and would bring two hundred francs. Why did you not take them along with your plates?”

Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the bishop with an expression no human tongue could describe.

“Monseigneur,” said the brigadier, “then what this man said was true? We met him. He was going like a man who was running away and we arrested him in order to see. He had this silver.”

“And he told you that it had been given him by a good old priest with whom he had passed the night. I see it all. And you brought him back here? It is all a mistake.”

“If that is so,” said the brigadier, “we can let him go.”

“Certainly,” replied the bishop, “you may retire.”

The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who shrank back.

“My friend, before you go away here are the candlesticks; take them.”

Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two candlesticks mechanically and with a wild appearance.

“Now go in peace. By the way, my friend, when you come again you need not come through the garden. You can always come in and go out by the front door. It is closed only with a latch, day or night. Forget not, never forget that you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest man.

“Jean Valjean, my brother, you belong no longer to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition and I give it to God!”—Arranged from “Les Miserables.”

A DESERT TRAGEDY

BY FRANK NORRIS

One day, a fortnight after McTeague’s flight from San Francisco, Marcus rode into Modoc, to find a group of men gathered about a notice affixed to the outside of the Wells-Fargo office. It was an offer of reward for the arrest and apprehension of a murderer. The crime had been committed in San Francisco, but the man wanted had been traced as far as the western portion of Inyo County, and was believed at that time to be in hiding in either the Pinto or Panamint hills in the vicinity of Keeler.

Marcus reached Keeler on the afternoon of that same day. Half a mile from the town his pony fell and died from exhaustion. Marcus did not stop even to remove the saddle. He arrived in the barroom of the hotel in Keeler just after the posse had been made up. The sheriff, who had come down from Independence that morning, at first refused his offer of assistance. He had enough men already—too many, in fact. The country traveled through would be hard, and it would be difficult to find water for so many men and horses.

“But none of you fellers have ever seen um,” vociferated Marcus, quivering with excitement and wrath. “I know um well. I could pick um out in a million. I can identify um, and you fellers can’t. And I knew—I knew—good God! I knew that girl—his wife—in Frisco. She’s a cousin of mine, she is—she was—I thought once of—. This thing’s a personal matter of mine—an’ that money he got away with, that five thousand, belongs to me by rights. Oh, never mind, I’m going along. Do you hear?” he shouted, his fists raised, “I’m going along, I tell you. There ain’t a man of you big enough to stop me. Let’s see you try and stop me going. Let’s see you once, any two of you.” He filled the barroom with his clamor.

“Lord love you, come along, then,” said the sheriff.

The posse rode out of Keeler that same night. The keeper of the general merchandise store, from whom Marcus had borrowed a second pony, had informed them that Cribbens and his partner, whose description tallied exactly with that given in the notice of reward, had outfitted at his place with a view to prospecting in the Panamint hills. The posse trailed them at once to their first camp at the head of the valley. It was an easy matter. It was only necessary to inquire of the cowboys and range-riders of the valley if they had seen and noted the passage of two men, one of whom carried a bird-cage.

Beyond this first camp the trail was lost, and a week was wasted in a bootless search around the mine at Gold Gulch, whither it seemed probable the partners had gone. Then a traveling peddler, who included Gold Gulch in his route, brought in the news of a wonderful strike of gold-bearing quartz some ten miles to the south on the western slope of the range. Two men from Keeler had made a strike, the peddler had said, and added the curious detail that one of the men had a canary bird in a cage with him.

The posse made Cribbens’ camp three days after the unaccountable disappearance of his partner. Their man was gone, but the narrow hoof-prints of a mule, mixed with those of huge hob-nailed boots, could be plainly followed in the sand. Here they picked up the trail and held to it steadily till the point was reached where, instead of tending southward, it swerved abruptly to the east. The men could hardly believe their eyes.

“It ain’t reason,” exclaimed the sheriff. “What in thunder is he up to? This beats me! Cutting out into Death Valley at this time of year!”

“He’s heading for Gold Mountain over in the Armagosa, sure.”

The men decided that this conjecture was true. It was the only inhabited locality in that direction. A discussion began as to the further movements of the posse.

“I don’t figure on going into that alkali sink with no eight men and horses,” declared the sheriff. “One man can’t carry enough water to take him and his mount across, let alone eight. No, sir. Four couldn’t do it. No, three couldn’t. We’ve got to make a circuit round the valley and come up on the other side and head him off at Gold Mountain. That’s what we got to do, and ride like blazes to do it, too.”

But Marcus protested with all the strength of his lungs against abandoning the trail now that they had found it. He argued that they were now but a day and a half behind their man. There was no possibility of their missing the trail—as distinct in the white alkali as in snow. They could make a dash into the valley, secure their man, and return long before their water failed them. He, for one, would not give up the pursuit, now that they were so close. In the haste of the departure from Keeler the sheriff had neglected to swear him in. He was under no orders. He would do as he pleased.

“Go on, then, you darn fool,” answered the sheriff. “We’ll cut on round the valley, for all that. It’s a gamble he’ll be at Gold Mountain before you’re half-way across. But if you catch him, here”—he tossed Marcus a pair of handcuffs—“put ’em on him and bring him back to Keeler.”

Two days after he had left the posse, and when he was already far out in the desert, Marcus’s horse gave out. In the fury of his impatience he had spurred mercilessly forward on the trail, and on the morning of the third day found that his horse was unable to move. The joints of his legs seemed locked rigidly. He would go his own length, stumbling and interfering, then collapse helplessly upon the ground with a pitiful groan. He was used up.

Marcus believed himself to be close upon McTeague now. The ashes at his last camp had still been smoldering. Marcus took what supplies of food and water he could carry, and hurried on. But McTeague was farther ahead than he had guessed, and by evening of his third day upon the desert Marcus, raging with thirst, had drunk his last mouthful of water and had flung away the empty canteen.

“If he ain’t got water with um,” he said to himself, as he pushed on, “if he ain’t got water with um, I’ll be in a bad way. I will, for a fact.”

* * * * *

At Marcus’s shout McTeague looked up and around him. For the instant he saw no one. The white glare of alkali was still unbroken. Then his swiftly rolling eyes lighted upon a head and shoulder that protruded above the low crest of the break directly in front of him. A man was there, lying at full length upon the ground, covering him with a revolver. For a few seconds McTeague looked at the man stupidly, bewildered, confused, as yet without definite thought. Then he noticed that the man was singularly like Marcus Schouler. It was Marcus Schouler. How in the world did Marcus Schouler happen to be in that desert? What did he mean by pointing a pistol at him that way? He’d best look out or the pistol would go off. Then his thoughts readjusted themselves with a swiftness born of a vivid sense of danger. Here was the enemy at last, the tracker he had felt upon his footsteps. Now at length he had “come on” and shown himself, after all those days of skulking. McTeague was glad of it. He’d show him now. They two would have it out right then and there. His rifle! He had thrown it away long since. He was helpless. Marcus had ordered him to put up his hands. If he did not, Marcus would kill him. He had the drop on him. McTeague stared, scowling fiercely at the leveled pistol. He did not move.

“Hands up!” shouted Marcus a second time. “I’ll give you three to do it in. One, two—” Instinctively McTeague put his hands above his head.

Marcus rose and came towards him over the break.

“Keep ’em up,” he cried. “If you move ’em once I’ll kill you, sure.”

He came up to McTeague and searched him, going through his pockets; but McTeague had no revolver; not even a hunting knife.

“What did you do with that money, with that five thousand dollars?”

“It’s on the mule,” answered McTeague, sullenly.

Marcus grunted, and cast a glance at the mule, who was standing some distance away, snorting nervously, and from time to time flattening his long ears.

“Is that it there on the horn of the saddle, there in that canvas sack?” Marcus demanded.

“Yes, that’s it.”

A gleam of satisfaction came into Marcus’s eyes, and under his breath he muttered: “Got it at last.”

He was singularly puzzled to know what next to do. He had got McTeague. There he stood at length, with his big hands over his head, scowling at him sullenly. Marcus had caught his enemy, had run down the man for whom every officer in the state had been looking. What should he do with him now? He couldn’t keep him standing there forever with his hands over his head.

“Got any water?” he demanded.

“There’s a canteen of water on the mule.”

Marcus moved toward the mule and made as if to reach the bridle-rein. The mule squealed, threw up his head, and galloped to a little distance, rolling his eyes and flattening his ears.

Marcus swore wrathfully.

“He acted that way once before,” explained McTeague, his hands still in the air. “He ate some loco-weed back in the hills before I started.”

For a moment Marcus hesitated. While he was catching the mule McTeague might get away. But where to, in heaven’s name? A rat could not hide on the surface of that glistening alkali, and besides, all McTeague’s store of provisions and his priceless supply of water were on the mule. Marcus ran after the mule, revolver in hand, shouting and cursing. But the mule would not be caught. He acted as if possessed, squealing, lashing out, and galloping in wide circles, his head high in the air.

“Come on,” shouted Marcus, furious, turning back to McTeague. “Come on, help me catch him. We got to catch him. All the water we got is on the saddle.”

McTeague came up.

“He’s eatun some loco-weed,” he repeated. “He went kinda crazy before.”

“If he should take it into his head to bolt and keep on running—”

Marcus did not finish. A sudden great fear seemed to widen around and inclose the two men. Once their water gone, the end would not be long.

“We can catch him all right,” said the dentist. “I caught him once before.”

“Oh, I guess we can catch him,” answered Marcus, reassuringly.

Already the sense of enmity between the two had weakened in the face of a common peril. Marcus let down the hammer of his revolver and slid it back into the holster.

The mule was trotting on ahead, snorting and throwing up great clouds of alkali dust. At every step the canvas sack jingled, and McTeague’s bird-cage, still wrapped in the flour bags, bumped against the saddle-pads. By and by the mule stopped, blowing out his nostrils excitedly.

“He’s clean crazy,” fumed Marcus, panting and swearing.

“We ought to come up on him quiet,” observed McTeague.

“I’ll try and sneak up,” said Marcus; “two of us would scare him again. You stay here.”

Marcus went forward a step at a time. He was almost within arm’s length of the bridle when the mule shied from him abruptly and galloped away.

Marcus danced with rage, shaking his fists, and swearing horribly. Some hundred yards away the mule paused and began blowing and snuffing in the alkali as though in search of food. Then, for no reason, he shied again, and started off on a jog trot toward the east.

“We’ve _got_ to follow him,” exclaimed Marcus, as McTeague came up. “There’s no water within seventy miles of here.”

Then began an interminable pursuit. Mile after mile, under the terrible heat of the desert sun, the two men followed the mule, racked with a thirst that grew fiercer every hour. A dozen times they could almost touch the canteen of water, and as often the distraught animal shied away and fled before them. At length Marcus cried:

“It’s no use, we can’t catch him, and we’re killing ourselves with thirst. We got to take our chances.” He drew his revolver from its holster, cocked it, and crept forward.

“Steady now,” said McTeague; “it won’t do to shoot through the canteen.”

Within twenty yards Marcus paused, made a rest of his left forearm and fired.

“You got him,” cried McTeague. “No, he’s up again. Shoot him again. He’s going to bolt.”

Marcus ran on, firing as he went. The mule, one foreleg trailing, scrambled along, squealing and snorting. Marcus fired his last shot. The mule pitched forward upon his head, then, rolling sideways, fell upon the canteen, bursting it open and spilling its entire contents into the sand.

Marcus and McTeague ran up, and Marcus snatched the battered canteen from under the reeking, bloody hide. There was no water left. Marcus flung the canteen from him and stood up, facing McTeague. There was a pause.

“We’re dead men,” said Marcus.

McTeague looked from him out over the desert. Chaotic desolation stretched from them on either hand, flaming and glaring with the afternoon heat. There was the brazen sky and the leagues upon leagues of alkali, leper white. There was nothing more. They were in the heart of Death Valley.

“Not a drop of water,” muttered McTeague; “not a drop of water.”

“We can drink the mule’s blood,” said Marcus. “It’s been done before. But—but—” he looked down at the quivering, gory body “—but I ain’t thirsty enough for that yet.”

“Where’s the nearest water?”

“Well, it’s about a hundred miles or more back of us in the Panamint hills,” returned Marcus, doggedly. “We’d be crazy long before we reached it. I tell you we’re _done_ for. We ain’t ever going to get outa here.”

“Done for?” murmured the other, looking about stupidly. “Done for, that’s the word. Done for? Yes, I guess we’re done for.”

“What are we going to do _now_?” exclaimed Marcus, sharply, after a while.

“Well, let’s be moving along—somewhere.”

“_Where_, I’d like to know? What’s the good of moving on?”

“Wat’s the good of stopping here?”

There was a silence.

“Lord, it’s hot,” said the dentist, finally, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Marcus ground his teeth.

“Done for,” he muttered; “done for.”

“I never was so thirsty,” continued McTeague. “I’m that dry I can hear my tongue rubbing against the roof of my mouth.”

“Well, we can’t stop here,” said Marcus, finally; “we got to go somewhere. We’ll try and get back, but it ain’t no manner of use. Anything we want to take along with us from the mule? We can—”

Suddenly he paused. In an instant the eyes of the two doomed men had met as the same thought simultaneously rose in their minds. The canvas sack with its five thousand dollars was still tied to the horn of the saddle.

Marcus had emptied his revolver at the mule, and though he still wore his cartridge belt, he was for the moment as unarmed as McTeague.

“I guess,” began McTeague, coming forward a step, “I guess even if we are done for, I’ll take—some of my truck along.”

“Hold on,” exclaimed Marcus, with rising aggressiveness. “Let’s talk about that. I ain’t so sure about who that—who that money belongs to.”

“Well, I _am_, you see,” growled the dentist.

The old enmity between the two men, their ancient hate, was flaming up again.

“Don’t try an’ load that gun either,” cried McTeague, fixing Marcus with his little eyes.

“Then don’t lay your finger on that sack,” shouted the other. “You’re my prisoner, do you understand? You’ll do as I say.” Marcus had drawn the handcuffs from his pocket, and stood ready with his revolver held as a club. “You soldiered me out of that money once, and played me for a sucker, an’ it’s _my_ turn now. Don’t you lay your finger on that sack.”

Marcus barred McTeague’s way, white with passion. McTeague did not answer. His eyes drew to two fine, twinkling points, and his enormous hands knotted themselves into fists, hard as wooden mallets. He moved a step nearer to Marcus, then another.

Suddenly the men grappled, and in another instant were rolling and struggling upon the hot, white ground. McTeague thrust Marcus backward until he tripped and fell over the body of the dead mule. The little bird-cage broke from the saddle with the violence of their fall, and rolled out upon the ground, the flour-bags slipping from it. McTeague tore the revolver from Marcus’s grip and struck out with it blindly. Clouds of alkali dust, fine and pungent, enveloped the two fighting men, all but strangling them.

McTeague did not know how he killed his enemy, but all at once Marcus grew still beneath his blows. Then there was a sudden last return of energy. McTeague’s right wrist was caught, something clicked upon it, then the struggling body fell limp and motionless with a long breath.

As McTeague rose to his feet, he felt a pull at his right wrist; something held it fast. Looking down, he saw that Marcus in that last struggle had found strength to handcuff their right wrists together. Marcus was dead now; McTeague was locked to the body. All about him, vast, interminable, stretched the measureless leagues of Death Valley.

McTeague remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary chittering feebly in its little gilt prison.—Arranged from “McTeague.” Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR

BY JULES VERNE

The door of the imperial cabinet was opened and General Kissoff was announced.

“The courier?” inquired the Czar eagerly.

“He is here, sire,” replied General Kissoff.

“Let him come in,” said the Czar.

In a few moments Michael Strogoff, the courier, entered. The Czar fixed a penetrating look upon him without uttering a word. Then in an abrupt tone—

“Thy name?”

“Michael Strogoff, sire.”

“Thy rank?”

“Captain in the corps of Couriers to the Czar.”

“Thou dost know Siberia?”

“I am a Siberian.”

“A native of—?”

“Omsk, sire.”

“Hast thou relations there?”

“Yes, sire, my aged mother.”

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand:

“Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him.”

“I will deliver it, sire.”

“The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter.”

“I will traverse it.”

“Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way.”

“I will beware of him.”

“Wilt thou pass through Omsk?”

“Sire, that is my route.”

“If thou dost see thy mother, there will be the risk of being recognized. Thou must not see her!”

Michael Strogoff hesitated a moment, and then said:

“I will not see her.”

“Swear to me that nothing will make thee acknowledge who thou art, nor whither thou art going.”

“I swear it.”

“Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke.”

“This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke.”

“Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land.”

The courier saluted his sovereign and that very night set out to fulfill his perilous mission. All went well until he reached Omsk. Compelled to stop here for food and a change of horses, he was about to leave the posting house to continue his journey when suddenly a cry made him tremble—a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul—and these two words rushed into his ear: “My son!”

His mother, the old woman, Marfa, was before him! Trembling, she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself—when the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself, and his mother, in this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among them perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the corps of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not move.

“Michael!” cried his mother.

“Who are you, my good woman?”

“Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?”

“You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you.”

Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said: “Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?”

Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. But if he yielded now it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath. Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.

“I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman.”

“Michael!”

“My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Kopanoff, a merchant of Irkutsk.”

And suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears,—

“My son! My son!”

Michael Strogoff by a desperate effort had gone. He did not heed his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son. It was impossible! As for being deceived, it was equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized her it was because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother-feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly have ruined him?

“I am mad,” she said to her interrogators. “This young man was not my son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end in finding him everywhere.”

This scene, however, was immediately reported to Ivan Ogareff, who was stationed in the town. He at once arrested Michael Strogoff, and then had Marfa brought before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited. “You are Marfa Strogoff?” asked Ogareff.

“Yes.”

“Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?”

“No.”

“Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the Czar, has passed through Omsk?”

“I do not know it.”

“And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son was not your son?”

“He was not my son.”

“And since then, you have seen him among the prisoners?”

“No.”

“If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?”

“No.”

“Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me.”

“No.”

“All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall have passed before you.”

On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast at a few inches’ distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself up and waited.

“Begin,” said Ogareff.

The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand stopped the Tartar’s arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

“Michael Strogoff!” cried he.

“Himself!” said Michael, and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across the face.

“Blow for blow!” said he.

Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them.

“This man is reserved for the Emir’s judgment. Search him.”

The letter bearing the imperial arms was found in Michael’s bosom; he had not time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff. Michael was then led before the Emir.

“Your forehead to the ground!” exclaimed Ogareff.

“No!”

Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the ground by a blow from Michael’s fist.

“Who is this prisoner?” asked the Emir.

“A Russian spy,” answered Ogareff.

In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he pointed to the Koran, which was brought to him. He opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in a loud voice a verse ending in these words: “And he shall no more see the things of this earth.”

“Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; then look while you may! You have seen for the last time. In an instant your eyes will be for ever shut to the light of day.”

Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness. He was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion, with a hot saber-blade passed before his eyes.

The Emir’s orders executed, Ivan Ogareff approached Michael, drew from his pocket the Imperial letter, opened it and held it up before the face of the Czar’s courier, saying with supreme irony:

“Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of the Czar is henceforth Ivan Ogareff.”

The Emir retired with his train. Ivan followed after, and sightless Michael was left alone to his fate. One thought possessed him. He must somehow arrive at Irkutsk before the traitor and warn the Grand Duke of the intended deception.

Some months later Michael Strogoff had reached his journey’s end! He was in Irkutsk. Hastening to the governor’s palace to see the Grand Duke, he meets in a waiting-room Ivan Ogareff, the traitor. The latter must act quickly. Ogareff arose, and thinking he had an immeasureable advantage over the blind man threw himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael’s breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man’s knife turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff’s brow; he draws back a step and again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael’s knife has parried the blow from the traitor’s useless sword. Mad with rage and terror, he gazes into the wide-open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes which seem to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which do not, cannot, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.

Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: “He sees! He sees!”

“Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!”

Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but, mustering up all his courage, he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael’s knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground.

At the same moment the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar’s Courier. Then in threatening voice:

“Who killed this man?”

“I,” answered Michael.

“Thy name? Who dares kill the servant of my brother, the Czar’s Courier?”

“That man, your highness, is not a Courier of the Czar! He is Ivan Ogareff!”

“Ivan Ogareff!”

“Yes, Ivan the traitor.”

“But who are you, then?”

“Michael Strogoff.”

THE TIGER’S CAVE

AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS OF QUITO

On leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round Chimborazo’s wide base; but its snow-crowned head no longer shone above us in clear brilliancy, for a dense fog was gathering gradually around it. Our guides looked anxiously towards it, and announced their apprehensions of a violent storm. We soon found that their fears were well founded. The fog rapidly covered and obscured the whole of the mountain; the atmosphere was suffocating, and yet so humid that the steelwork of our watches was covered with rust, and the watches stopped. The river beside which we were traveling rushed down with still greater impetuosity; and from the clefts of the rocks which lay on the left of our path were suddenly precipitated small rivulets that bore the roots of trees and innumerable serpents along with them. These rivulets often came down so suddenly and violently that we had great difficulty in preserving our footing. The thunder at length began to roll, and resounded through the mountainous passes with the most terrific grandeur. Then came the vivid lightning, flash following flash—above, around, beneath—everywhere a sea of fire. We sought a momentary shelter in a cleft of the rocks, while one of our guides hastened forward to seek a more secure asylum. In a short time he returned, and informed us that he had discovered a spacious cavern, which would afford us sufficient protection from the elements. We proceeded thither immediately, and with great difficulty, and not a little danger, at last got into it.

The noise and raging of the storm continued with so much violence that we could not hear the sound of our voices. I had placed myself near the entrance of the cave, and could observe, through the opening, which was straight and narrow, the singular scene without. The highest cedar-trees were struck down, or bent like reeds; monkeys and parrots lay strewed upon the ground, killed by the falling branches; the water had collected in the path we had just passed, and hurried along it like a mountain stream. From everything I saw I thought it extremely probable that we should be obliged to pass some days in this cavern. When the storm, however, had somewhat abated, our guides ventured out in order to ascertain if it were possible to continue our journey. The cave in which we had taken refuge was extremely dark, so that if we moved a few paces from the entrance we could see no more than an inch before us; and we were debating as to the propriety of leaving it, even before the Indians came back, when we suddenly heard a singular rumbling or growling at the farther end of the cavern, which instantly fixed all our attention. Wharton and myself listened anxiously, but our daring and inconsiderate young friend Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept about upon their hands and knees, and endeavored to discover, by groping, from whence the sound proceeded. They had not advanced far into the cavern before we heard them utter an exclamation of surprise; and they returned to us, each carrying in his arms an animal singularly marked, and about the size of a cat, seemingly of great strength and power, and furnished with immense fangs. The eyes were of a green color; strong claws were upon their feet; and a blood-red tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had scarcely glanced at them, when he exclaimed, in consternation, “Good God! we have come into the den of a—.” He was interrupted by a fearful cry of dismay from our guides, who came rushing precipitately towards us, calling out, “A tiger! a tiger!” and at the same time, with extraordinary rapidity, they climbed up a cedar-tree, which stood at the entrance of the cave, and hid themselves among the branches.

After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which rendered me motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped my firearms. Wharton had already regained his composure and self-possession; and he called to us to assist him instantly in blocking up the mouth of the cave with an immense stone, which fortunately lay near it. The sense of approaching danger augmented our strength, for we now distinctly heard the growl of the ferocious animal, and we were lost beyond redemption if it reached the entrance before we could get it closed. Ere this was done, we could distinctly see the tiger bounding towards the spot and stooping in order to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this fearful moment our exertions were successful, and the great stone kept the wild beast at bay. There was a small open space, however, left between the top of the entrance and the stone, through which we could see the head of the animal, illuminated by its glowing eyes, which rolled, glaring with fury, upon us. Its frightful roaring, too, penetrated to the depths of the cavern, and was answered by the hoarse growling of the cubs, which Lincoln and Frank had now tossed from them. Our ferocious enemy attempted first to remove the stone with his powerful claws, and then to push it with his head from its place; and these efforts, proving abortive, served only to increase his wrath. He uttered a tremendous, heart-piercing howl, and his flaming eyes darted light into the darkness of our retreat.

“Now is the time to fire at him,” said Wharton, with his usual calmness; “aim at his eyes; the ball will go through his brain, and we shall then have a chance to get rid of him.”

Frank seized his double-barreled gun, and Lincoln his pistols; the former placed the muzzle within a few inches of the tiger, and Lincoln did the same. At Wharton’s command, they both drew the triggers at the same moment, but no shot followed. The tiger, who seemed aware that the flash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growling from the entrance, but, feeling himself unhurt, immediately turned back again, and stationed himself in his former place. The powder in both pieces was wet. Frank and Lincoln, therefore, proceeded to draw the useless charges while Wharton and myself hastened to seek our powder-flask. It was so extremely dark that we were obliged to grope about the cave; and, at last, coming in contact with the cubs, we heard a rustling noise, as if they were playing with some metal substance, which we soon discovered was the cannister we were looking for. Most unfortunately, however, the animals had pushed off the lid with their claws, and the powder had been strewed over the damp earth and rendered entirely useless. This fearful discovery excited the greatest consternation.

“All is now over,” said Wharton. “We have only now to choose whether we shall die of hunger, together with these animals who are shut up along with us, or open the entrance to the blood-thirsty monster without, and so make a quicker end of the matter.”

So saying, he placed himself close beside the stone, which, for the moment, defended us, and looked undauntedly upon the lightning eyes of the tiger.

Lincoln raved and swore; and Frank took a piece of strong cord from his pocket and hastened to the farther end of the cave—I knew not with what design. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled groaning; and the tiger, who had heard it also, became more restless and disturbed than ever. He went backwards and forwards before the entrance of the cave, in the most wild, impetuous manner, then stood still, and stretching out his neck in the direction of the forest, broke forth into a deafening howl. Our two Indian guides took advantage of this opportunity to discharge several arrows from the tree. The animal was struck more than once, but the light weapons bounded back harmless from his thick skin. At length, however, one of them struck him near the eye, and the arrow remained sticking in the wound. He now broke anew into the wildest fury, and sprang at the tree, and tore it with his claws, as if he would have dragged it to the ground. But, having at length succeeded in getting rid of the arrow, became more calm, and laid himself down as before in front of the cave.

Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and a glance showed us what he had been doing. In each hand, and dangling from the end of a string, were the two cubs. He had strangled them, and before we were aware what he intended, he threw them through the opening to the tiger. No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed earnestly upon them, and began to examine them closely, turning them cautiously from side to side. As soon as he became aware that they were dead, he uttered so piercing a howl of sorrow that we were obliged to put our hands to our ears. When I upbraided my huntsman for the cruel action he had so rashly committed, I perceived by his blunt and abrupt answers that he also had lost all hope of rescue from our impending fate, and, that, under these circumstances, the ties between master and servant were dissolved. For my own part, without knowing why, I could not help believing that some unexpected assistance would yet rescue us from so horrible a fate. Alas! I little anticipated the sacrifice that my rescue was to cost.

The thunder had now ceased, and the storm had sunk to a gentle gale; the songs of the birds were again heard in the neighboring forest, and the sunbeams sparkled in the drops that hung from the leaves. We saw through the aperture that all nature was reviving after the wild war of elements which had so recently taken place; but the contrast only made our situation the more terrible. We were in a grave from which there was no deliverance; and a monster, worse than the fabled Cerberus, kept watch over us. The tiger had laid himself down beside his whelps. He was a beautiful animal, of great size and strength, and his limbs being stretched out at their full length, displayed his immense power of muscle. A double row of great teeth stood far enough apart to show his large red tongue, from which the white foam fell in large drops. All at once, another roar was heard at a distance, and the tiger immediately rose and answered it with a mournful howl. At the same instant, our Indians uttered a shriek, which announced that some new danger threatened us. A few moments confirmed our worst fears, for another tiger, not quite so large as the former, came rapidly towards the spot where we were.

“This enemy will prove more cruel than the other,” said Wharton; “for this is the female, and she knows no pity for those who deprive her of her young.”

The howls which the tigress gave when she had examined the bodies of her cubs, surpassed everything of the horrible that we had yet heard; and the tiger mingled his mournful cries with hers. Suddenly her roaring was lowered to a hoarse growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch out her head, extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she were determined to discover immediately the murderers of her young. Her eyes quickly fell upon us, and she made a spring forward with the intention of penetrating to our place of refuge. Perhaps she might have been enabled by her immense strength to push away the stone, had we not, with all our united power, held it against her. When she found that all her efforts were fruitless she rejoined the tiger, who lay stretched beside his cubs, and he arose and added his howls to her hollow roarings. They stood together for a few moments, as if in consultation, and then suddenly went off at a rapid pace, and disappeared from our sight. Their howling died away in the distance, and then entirely ceased. We now began to entertain better hopes of our condition; but Wharton shook his head.

“Do not flatter yourselves,” said he, “with the belief that these animals will let us escape out of their sight till they have had their revenge. The hours we have to live are numbered.”

Nevertheless, there still appeared a chance for our rescue, for, to our surprise, we saw both our Indians standing before the entrance, and heard them call to us to seize the only possibility of our yet saving ourselves by instant flight, for that the tigers had only gone round the height to seek another inlet to the cave, with which they were no doubt acquainted. In the greatest haste the stone was pushed aside, and we stepped forth from what we had considered a living grave. Wharton was the last who left it; he was unwilling to lose his double-barreled gun, and stopped to take it up; the rest of us only thought of making our escape. We now heard once more the roaring of the tigers, though at a distance; and, following the example of our guides, we precipitately struck into a sidepath. From the number of roots and branches of trees with which the storm had strewed our way, and the slipperiness of the road, our flight was slow and difficult. Wharton, though an active seaman, had a heavy step, and had great difficulty in keeping pace with us, and we were often obliged to slacken our own on his account.

We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, when we found that our way led along the edge of a rocky cliff, with innumerable fissures. We had just entered upon it, when suddenly the Indians, who were before us, uttered one of their piercing shrieks, and we immediately became aware that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged by despair, we rushed towards the breaks, or gulfs, in our way, over which was thrown a bridge of reeds, that sprang up and down at every step, and could be trodden with safety by the light foot of the Indians alone. Deep in the hollow below rushed an impetuous stream, and a thousand pointed and jagged rocks threatened destruction on every side. Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself, passed over the chasm in safety; but Wharton was still in the middle of the waving bridge, and endeavoring to steady himself, when both the tigers were seen to issue from the adjoining forest; and, the moment they descried us they bounded towards us with dreadful roarings. Meanwhile, Wharton had nearly gained the safe side of the gulf, and we were all clambering the rocky cliff, except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy bridge to assist his friend to step upon firm ground. Wharton, though the ferocious animals were close upon him, never lost his courage or presence of mind.

As soon as he had gained the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and, with the edge of his sword, divided the fastenings by which the bridge was attached to the rock. He expected an effectual barrier would thus be put to the farther progress of our pursuers; but he was mistaken; for he had scarcely accomplished his task, when the tigress, without a moment’s pause, rushed towards the chasm, and attempted to bound over. It was a fearful sight to see the mighty animal, suspended for a moment in the air above the abyss; but the scene passed like a flash of lightning. Her strength was not equal to the distance; she fell into the gulf, and before she reached the bottom, was torn into a thousand pieces by the jagged points of the rocks. Her fate did not in the least dismay her companion; he followed her with an immense spring, and reached the opposite side, but only with his fore-claws, and thus he clung to the edge of the precipice, endeavoring to gain a footing. The Indians again uttered a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. But Wharton, who was nearest to the edge of the rock, advanced courageously towards the tiger, and struck his sword into the animal’s breast. Enraged beyond all measure, the wild beast collected all his strength, and with a violent effort, fixing one of his hind-legs upon the edge of the cliff, he seized Wharton by the thigh. The heroic man still preserved his fortitude; he grasped the trunk of à tree with his left hand, to steady and support himself, while with his right he wrenched and violently turned the sword that was still in the breast of the tiger.

All this was the work of an instant. The Indians, Frank, and myself hastened to his assistance; but Lincoln, who was already at his side, had seized Wharton’s gun, which lay near by, upon the ground, and struck so powerful a blow with the butt-end upon the head of the tiger, that the animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold and fell back into the abyss. All would have been well, had it ended thus; but the unfortunate Lincoln had not calculated upon the force of his blow; he staggered forward, reeled upon the edge of the precipice, extended his hand to seize upon anything to save himself—but in vain. His foot slipped; for an instant he hovered over the gulf, and then was plunged into it to rise no more!—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._

WHALE HUNTING

BY J. ROSS BROWNE

“There she blows!” was sung out from the mast-head.

“Where away?” demanded the captain.

“Three points off the lee bow, sir.”

“Raise up your wheel. Steady!”

“Steady, sir.”

“Mast-head, ahoy! Do you see that whale now?”

“Aye, aye, sir! A school of sperm whales! There she blows! There she breaches!”

“Sing out! Sing out every time!”

“Aye, aye, sir! There she blows! There—there—thar’ she blows—blowes—blo-o-o-s!”

“How far off!”

“Two miles and a half!”

“Thunder and lightning! so near! Call all hands! Clew up the fore-t’gallant-sail—there! belay! Hard down your wheel! Haul aback the main yard! Get your tubs in your boats! Bear a hand! Clear your falls! Stand by all to lower! All ready?”

“All ready, sir!”

“Lower away!”

Down went the boats with a splash. Each boat’s crew sprang over the rail, and in an instant the larboard, starboard and waist boats were manned. There was great rivalry in getting the start. The waist-boat got off in pretty good time; and away went all three, dashing the water high over their bows. Nothing could be more exciting than the chase.

The larboard boat, commanded by the mate, and the waist-boat, by the second mate, were head and head.

“Give way, my lads, give way!” shouted our headsman; “we gain on them; give way! A long, steady stroke! That’s the way to tell it!”

“Aye, aye!” cried Tabor, our boat-steerer. “What d’ye say, boys? Shall we lick ’em?”

“Pull! pull like vengeance!” echoed the crew; and we danced over the waves, scarcely seeming to touch them.

The chase was now truly soul-stirring. Sometimes the larboard, then the starboard, then the waist-boat took the lead. It was a severe trial of skill and muscle. After we had run two miles at this rate, the whales turned flukes, going dead to windward.

“Now for it, my lads!” cried our headsman. “We’ll have them the next rising. Now pile it on! a long, steady pull! That’s it! Don’t give out! Half an hour more, and they’re our whales!”

The other boats had veered off at either side of us, and continued the chase with renewed ardor. In about half an hour we lay on our oars to look around for the whales.

“There she blows! right ahead!” shouted Tabor, fairly dancing with delight.

“There she blows! There she blows!”

“Oh, Lord, boys, spring!” cried our headsman.

“Spring it is! What d’ye say, now, chummies? Shall we take those whales?”

To this general appeal every man replied by putting his weight on his oar, and exerting his utmost strength. The boat flew through the water with incredible swiftness, scarcely rising to the waves.

A large bull whale lay about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, lazily rolling in the trough of the sea. The larboard and starboard boats were far to leeward of us, tugging hard to get a chance at the other whales, which were now blowing in every direction.

“Give way! give way, my hearties!” cried our headsman, putting his weight against the aft oar. “Do you love gin? A bottle of gin to the best man! Oh, pile it on while you have breath! pile it on!”

“On with the beef, chummies! Smash every oar! double ’em up, or break ’em!”

“Every devil’s imp of you, pull! No talking; lay back to it; now or never!”

On dashed the boat, cleaving its way through the rough sea as if the briny element were blue smoke. The whale, however, turned flukes before we could reach him. When he appeared again above the surface of the water, it was evident that he had milled while down, by which maneuver he gained on us nearly a mile. The chase was now almost hopeless, as he was making to windward rapidly. A heavy, black cloud was on the horizon, portending an approaching squall, and the barque was fast fading from sight. Still we were not to be baffled by discouraging circumstances of this kind, and we braced our sinews for a grand and final effort.

“Never give up, my lads!” said the headsman, in a cheering voice. “Mark my words, we’ll have that whale yet. Only think he’s ours, and there’s no mistake about it, he will be ours. Now for a hard, steady pull! Give way!”

“Give way, sir! Give way, all!”

“There she blows! Oh, pull my lively lads! Only a mile off! There she blows!”

The wind by this time had increased almost to a gale, and the heavy black clouds were scattering over us far and wide. Part of the squall had passed off to leeward and entirely concealed the barque. Our situation was rather unpleasant: in a rough sea, the other boats out of sight, and each moment the wind increasing.

We continued to strain every muscle till we were hard upon the whale. Tabor sprang to the bow, and stood by with the harpoon.

“Softly, softly, my lads,” said the headsman.

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Hush-h-h! softly. Now’s your time, Tabor!”

Tabor let fly the harpoon, and buried the iron.

“Give him another!”

“Aye, aye! Stern all!”

“Stern all!” thundered the headsman.

“Stern all!”

And, as we rapidly backed from the whale, he flung his tremendous flukes high in the air, covering us with a cloud of spray. He then sounded, making the line whiz as it passed through the chocks. When he rose to the surface again, we hauled up, and the second mate stood ready in the bow to dispatch him with lances.

“Spouting blood!” said Tabor. “He’s a dead whale! He won’t need much lancing.”

It was true enough; for, before the officer could get within dart of him, he commenced his dying struggles. The sea was crimsoned with his blood. By the time we had reached him, he was belly up. We lay upon our oars a moment to witness his last throes, and, when he had turned his head toward the sun, a loud, simultaneous cheer burst from every lip.

A low, rumbling sound, like the roar of a distant waterfall, now reached our ears. Each moment it grew louder.

The whole expansive arch of the heavens became dark with clouds tossing, flying, swelling, and whirling over and over, like the surges of an angry sea. A white cloud, gleaming against the black mass behind it, came sweeping toward us, stretching forth its long, white arms, as if to grasp us in its fatal embrace. Louder and still louder it growled; yet the air was still and heavy around us. Now the white cloud spread, whirled over, and lost its hoary head; now it wore the mane and forefeet of a lion; now the heads of a dragon, with their tremendous jaws extended. Writhing, hissing, roaring, it swept toward us. The demon of wrath could not have assumed a more frightful form. The whole face of the ocean was hidden in utter darkness, save within a circle of a few hundred yards. Our little boat floated on a sea almost unruffled by a breath of wind. The heavy swell rolled lazily past us; yet a death-like calmness reigned in the air. Beyond the circle all was strife; within, all peace. We gazed anxiously in each other’s faces; but not a word was spoken. Even the veteran harpooner looked upon the clouds with a face of unusual solemnity, as we lay upon our oars, awed to silence by the sublimity of the scene. The ominous stillness of everything within the circle became painful. For many long minutes the surface of the water remained nearly smooth. We dreaded, but longed for a change. This state of suspense was growing intolerable. I could hear the deep, long-drawn respirations of those around me; I saw the quick, anxious glances they turned to windward; and I almost fancied I could read every thought that passed within their breasts.

Suddenly a white streak of foam appeared within a hundred yards. Scarcely had we unshipped our oars, when the squall burst upon us with stunning violence. The weather side of the boat was raised high out of the water, and the rushing foam dashed over the gunwale in torrents. We soon trimmed her, however, and, by hard bailing, got her clear of water. It is utterly impossible to conceive the violence of the wind. Small as the surface exposed to the squall was, we flew through the foaming seas, dragging the dead body of the whale after us with incredible velocity. Thus situated, entirely at the mercy of the wind and sea, we continued every moment to increase our distance from the barque. When the squall abated, we came to under the lee of the whale, and looked to leeward for the barque. Not a speck could be seen on the horizon! Night was rapidly approaching, and we were alone upon the broad, angry ocean!

“Ship your oars,” said the headsman; “we’ll not part company with old blubber yet. If we can’t make the barque, we can make land somewhere.”

“Aye, aye,” said Tabor, with a sly leer, “and live on roast-beef and turkey while we’re making it.”

With heavy hearts and many misgivings we shipped our oars, heartily wishing the whale in the devil’s try-pots; for we thought it rather hard that our lives should be risked for a few barrels of oil. For two hours we pulled a long, lazy, dogged stroke, without a sign of relief. At last Tabor stood up on the bow to look out, and we lay on our oars.

“Well, Tabor, what d’ye see?” was the general inquiry.

“Why,” said Tabor, coolly rolling the quid from his weather to his lee cheek, “I see a cussed old barque that looks like Granny Howland’s wash-tub, with a few broomsticks rigged up in the middle of it.”

“Pull, you devils!” cried our headsman; “there’s duff in the cook’s coppers.”

“Yes! I think I smell it,” said Tabor.

It was nearly dark when we arrived alongside of the barque with our prize; but what was our surprise to find that the starboard and larboard boats had killed five whales between them! They were all of a small size, and did not average more than fifteen barrels each.

That night not a breath of air ruffled the clear, broad ocean as it swelled beneath and around us, forming a multitude of mirrors that reflected all the beauties of the splendid canopy above. The moon arose with unusual brilliancy. It was a night for the winged spirits of the air. I enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in walking the decks beneath the soft moonbeams, thinking of past times. Silence reigned over the deep. The calm, broad ocean presented a beautiful simile of repose, and the light, shadowy clouds floated motionless in the air, as if in awe of the mighty wilderness of waters beneath them. A clear, silvery light beamed over the glassy swell; and far away the moon’s rays, casting their soft and delicate glow over the whole scene, gradually vanished in a dreamy haze upon the horizon. I gazed with pensive feelings upon this scene; so calm, so heavenly, so unrivaled in its loveliness; and I thought, with a sigh, of the coming day: the fiery, tropical sun; the heat and smoke of the try-works; and all the realities of a whaleman’s life. I have heard of the solitude of the desert; but what can compare with that of the ocean at such a time as this?

Never had the sea looked more beautiful than it did that night.

It was a source of pleasure to feel that, notwithstanding the wretched life I led, there were still left a few of the better feelings of my nature. A passage in the “Vision of Don Roderic” occurred to me as singularly expressive of the checkered fortunes of a seafarer. Well might I hope the light cloud which occasionally obscured the moon’s brightness might prove a happy omen of my future fate:

“Melting, as a wreath of snow it hangs In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes The orb in richer beauty than her own; Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene.”

—From “Etchings of a Whaling Cruise,” by kind permission of _Harper & Brothers_, Publishers, New York.

THE MAN IN THE SHADOW

BY R. W. CHILD

The late afternoon sunlight slanted down into the busy street through the trees of the Public Garden. It had been the sort of day which whispers of other scenes, old faces, gentle memories and painted possibilities. Now along the street came the ebb-tide of the day’s work swept out from the business part of the city and jostling homeward.

Among the home-goers was a man distinguished a little from the rest by a refined and patient expression. His shoulders sloped as if they had borne much; his eyes were open in a stare as if astounded at the repetition of life’s misfortunes; and his clothes, from his derby hat, shiny from his wife’s endless brushings, to his shoes, flattened by the monotony of his daily life, told of the practice of much respectable economy. Trouble had felt of his throat, one would say, but never had succeeded in throttling him. There was a quiet, reserved strength in the furrows of his forehead and in the solidity of his chin, and the wrinkles at the corner of his blue eyes declared that there was a fund of persistent hope in Carter Clews.

Looking up suddenly he saw four men coming down the steps of a hotel toward an open carriage which had drawn up to the curb. Three were inclined to the stoutness of middle age, and all were laughing prosperously, and chatting vociferously of Commencement dinners and baseball games and class reunions; it was evident that they were four successful men on a holiday and straining to be young again.

Carter Clews smiled with boyish pleasure, for one of them was “Newt” Riggs, who used to row on the crew and was now a corporation attorney in Chicago; and there was Billy Drowson, who used to flunk examinations as easily as if he meant to do it; and the third was Joe Crane, who was making his two hundred thousand a year in metal refining in Colorado; and the little man was Lapham, the surgeon, who had been marshal of the class.

The last had just seated himself comfortably in the carriage, when Clews succeeded in pushing his way into the gap they had left in the crowd. Both Joseph Crane and Lapham, seeing him take a step toward them, opened their eyes in innocent surprise; neither of them recognized him. He stopped for a moment of embarrassed hesitation, and in that moment he felt with the sharp old pang that he belonged among them no more. They were successful men.

Carter Clews stepped back into the gray shadow of the portico. The carriage started away with a laugh and the scrape of a wheel on the curb, and Clews started on his way once more. His daily trudge to and from his office was the result of a calculation that enough car fare each year was saved to buy an extra gown for his daughter. Life had toyed with him, showing her splendors and snatching them from his fingers; had taught him culture and then laughed at him.

The rattle of his key brought his wife to the door, and the usual smiles and kisses of welcome reminded him of the old duty of keeping his feelings to himself.

“Was there any mail to-day?”

“There was a postal-card came to-day for you, dad. It had been to all of the four places we have lived since we came back from Iowa, and so it was late in getting here. It was the announcement of the twenty-fifth anniversary dinner of your class; you’ll go, won’t you?”

“Where’s the postal?”

“Do go, dad, we don’t like to have you forgotten. It’s only six. The dinner’s at eight. You’ll have plenty of time, father.”

Clews took the card, holding it under the light of the lamp on the center-table. His fingers trembled a little as he read it.

“The last dinner I went to was in our Senior year, just before I graduated and went West; I was toastmaster at that dinner. It was a spring night like this. I remember a little crowd of us sat under a tree in the college yard and talked until daylight. We promised each other, half in fun, that the one who got to be forty-five years old and wasn’t successful should jump into the river. And then we went up to my room for a cold bath, and I built a fire and heated the poker and burned my name into the mantel-piece.”

He tossed the card aside. His wife could see upon his face the unmistakable sign that the accumulation of years of disappointment was no longer to be contained in silence.

“I’ve been a miserable fizzle! Unknown and forgotten because I deserve it!”

Edith looked straight at him. “That is not true,” she said softly.

“Perhaps it’s a bad dream! It’s been my fault. No wonder I’m forgotten! Everybody flocks around a victor, but who cares where the man is who failed to do big things? Once he marched in the front line promising a great deal, and now he’s got to watch the procession from the sidewalk. It would be better, if a man can’t make himself felt and has got to walk around unknown—to keep his promise and—”

“Don’t, father.”

He looked up into his daughter’s face, and seeing the trembling of her upper lip, drew a long breath and squared his shoulders.

“Well, perhaps we all have our compensations.”

“You are going to the class dinner, aren’t you?”

“No, I think I won’t go this time. Perhaps next year—”

“Oh, yes, for me! I’ll get your evening clothes. They’re put away.”

When he appeared in them a little later, he looked doubtfully at himself in the mirror, then suddenly smiled.

“I’ve had them ever since we were married. Their style looks rather quaint, doesn’t it? But I’ve had some very happy minutes inside the old coat. Do you remember this tie, Alice?”

“Why, for mercy’s sake! That was the first thing I ever made you!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he answered.

As he went slowly out into the hallway and down the noisy wooden stairs, his wife and daughter leaned over the banisters looking at him anxiously.

At last he turned the corner into the avenue. As he looked, he saw a little group of laughing men going up the steps; then he squared his shoulders, and walked briskly across the street and up the steps into the lobby.

The clerk leaned over the desk toward him. “Seventy-six?” Clews nodded: “Yes, my class—Seventy-six.”

“Just down at the end of that corridor.”

There were others standing with him at the checkroom, who nodded to him.

“Did you go to the game?” asked one.

“No. How did it come out?”

“Great guns! don’t you know how it came out? Why, we beat ’em! My boy plays first base. I go to all the games.”

“I wish I could. I wish I had gone to-day, but my work is rather confining. I have a daughter, and, of course, if I had a son, he’d be out there at the University too.”

“There are several prominent members of the class here to-night. Drowson is here, and Crane is toastmaster. We’re late, I think.”

With his new acquaintance Clews followed a knot of men who opened the door, exposing two large tables filled with diners. The noise within burst out and drew the attention of several guests of the hotel, who peered down the corridor with mild curiosity.

When the man who was with Clews hesitated for a moment, a dozen voices rose up to greet him, and several men stood up to shout, “Oh, Billy, here’s a seat!” or “Here you are, Lawton!”

Clews was lonely. Of the men who sat near him he remembered only two as acquaintances of undergraduate days, and the old associations recalled by their faces were so hazy that he was convinced that he had never known either of them well. They certainly did not recognize him. He determined grimly never to suffer another experience like this.

“The world likes success and sunlight,” he said to himself. “I’ll fight it out alone after this, and in my own little corner.”

A waiter finally thrust a demi-tasse of coffee deftly over Clew’s elbow. Crane had introduced Drowson with an accompaniment of cheers and hand-clapping, and Drowson had made a speech which had impressed every one, and Collingwood had been cajoled into singing an old song. Chairs were gradually moved back a little from the table, the room became foggy with the smoke that curled from the cigars, and a contented fullness and laughter tugged at nearly a hundred waistcoats.

Crane, the toastmaster, was rapping for silence.

“Before we break up,” he said, “I want you to drink one more toast with me. We have toasted ourselves and each other, but this toast is to a man who is not here.”

The interest and curiosity of every one was aroused. Even Clews leaned back in his chair to listen; it was plainly going to be a eulogy of some classman who had died.

“Twenty-five years ago, after our last college dinner, there were six men in our class sitting together under a tree in the yard and talking about what we would do. We said we would all be successful at forty-five. If not, we were going to jump into the river. I was one of those men—Billy Drowson was another; Wright was there—he died the next year. Then there was Lapham and Riggs. But there was another. He was a prominent figure in our class—the smartest one of the six—very honorable and good-hearted. I will not name him. He is not here. We all thought he would have a brilliant career. He came out of college and was married, and his father died and left him a mother and two sisters and an inheritance of debts. That cut him off from the professional schools, and he went West, and I have found out that he went into a business where there was no chance in the world of advancement. But it had to be done because that offered a way of bearing the burdens and obligations that were on him. It was just like him. Then he had to take care of a wife and three others besides.

“His health became very bad—he used to work sixteen hours a day sometimes, and when he was forty years old he found himself very much out of order. Then he came back East. Part of his burdens had been removed, but it was too late to start life as he might have started it once. He had burned out in the service like a faithful, honest, well-made candle. His light had been dim, but it had also been steady. I suppose he is alive, although I don’t know. But all of us who knew him best are sure that wherever he is, he is still putting up a good fight, and though he hasn’t got the cheers and the lime-light, he’s pulling mighty well. I know it!”

The room was very still while Crane paused.

“We’ve tried to locate him, but we lost the scent after we found he had come back from Iowa. We had planned to go back to-night, Drowson and Lapham and Riggs and myself and this other man, and sit under the tree in the yard where twenty-five years ago we’d promised to reach success, before we came back to attend this dinner. I feel sure that this missing man—this lost member of the class, I might say, for I can’t find any one who knows where he is—ought to be there. We think he comes as near success as any one of us.

“We learned years ago at the University that faithful duty really counted; the kind of success we are looking for isn’t always gilt-edged; the band isn’t always playing for it to march by! When I looked up this man I found a good, clean, honest story—a story of devotion and loyalty and the kind of courage that holds out when nobody is looking on or waving hats! I think we all ought to be glad he is a ‘Seventy-six’ man, and that we are not so narrow or ignorant as to count him a lost cause and a failure. I want you to drink a toast to him with me—gentlemen, to the man who does his job in a shadow!”

The whole class came to its feet together! Clews realized that toast was to him. Had his head been cool, he would have arisen with the rest unmarked and unknown—it was the old custom of remaining seated when so honored that betrayed him. It left him a second behind the rest, and the speaker’s big blue eyes were upon him at once. Crane lowered his glass and exclaimed, “Good God!”

Clews stumbled back into his chair. “Seventy-six” raised its voice in a great, generous roar. Clews looked up with wet cheeks and smiled like a pleased boy. This was his class, cheering—and for him!

Later in the night Clews returned to his wife and daughter. Governor William Drowson was with him.

“Alice,” said Carter Clews, “this is Billy. I roomed with him when I was a freshman. He’s going to spend the night with me.”

A WINDSTORM IN THE FORESTS

BY JOHN MUIR

One of the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the Sierra occurred in December, 1874, when I happened to be exploring one of the tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and the trees had been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day was intensely pure, one of those incomparable bits of California winter, warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the purest influences of the spring, and at the same time enlivened with one of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable. Instead of camping out, as I usually do, I then chanced to be stopping at the house of a friend. But when the storm began to sound, I lost no time in pushing out into the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions Nature has always something rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof.

It was still early morning when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious sunshine came pouring over the hills, lighting the tops of the pines, and setting free a stream of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine-tassels and bright green plumes that went flashing past in the sunlight like birds pursued. But there was not the slightest dustiness, nothing less pure than leaves, and ripe pollen, and flecks of withered bracken and moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the rate of one every two or three minutes; some uprooted, partly on account of the loose, water-soaked condition of the ground; others broken straight across, where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The gestures of the various trees made a delightful study. Young Sugar Pines, light and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground; while the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches streaming fluently in the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas Spruces, with long sprays drawn out in level tresses and needles massed in a gray, shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they stood in bold relief along the hill-tops. The Madroños in the dells, with their red bark and large, glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected the sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the Silver Pines were now the most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires 200 feet in height waved like supple goldenrods chanting and bowing low as if in worship, while the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was kindled into one continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to its roots with a motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it. Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid giants thrilled with glad excitement.

I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion, across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had swelled to its highest pitch I could distinctly hear the varying tones of individual trees,—Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak,—and even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. Each was expressing itself in its own way,—singing its own song, and making its own peculiar gestures,—manifesting a richness of variety to be found in no other forest I have yet seen....

Toward midday, after a long, tingling scramble through copses of hazel and ceanothus, I gained the summit of the highest ridge in the neighborhood; and then it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing to climb one of the trees to obtain a wider outlook and get my ear close to the Eolian music of its topmost needles. But under the circumstances the choice of a tree was a serious matter. One whose instep was not very strong, seemed in danger of being blown down, or of being struck by others in case they should fall; another was branchless to a considerable height above the ground, and at the same time too large to be grasped with arms and legs in climbing; while others were not favorably situated for clear views. After cautiously casting about, I made choice of the tallest of a group of Douglas Spruces that were growing close together like a tuft of grass; no one of which seemed likely to fall unless all the rest fell with it. Though comparatively young, they were about 100 feet high, and their lithe, brushy tops were rocking and swirling in wild ecstasy. Being accustomed to climb trees in botanical studies, I experienced no difficulty in reaching the top of this one, and never before did I enjoy so noble an exhilaration of motion. The slender tops fairly flapped and swished in the passionate torrent, bending and swirling backward and forward, round and round, tracing indescribable combinations of vertical and horizontal curves, while I clung with muscles firmly braced, like a bobolink on a reed.

In its widest sweeps my tree-top described an arc of twenty to thirty degrees, but I felt sure of its elastic temper, having seen others of the same species still more severely tried—bent almost to the ground indeed, in heavy snows—without breaking a fiber. I was therefore safe, and free to take the wind into my pulses and enjoy the excited forest from my superb outlook. The view from here must be extremely beautiful in any weather. Now my eye roved over the piny hills and dales as over fields of waving grain, and felt the light running in ripples and broad, swelling undulations across the valleys from ridge to ridge, as the shining foliage was stirred by corresponding waves of air. Oftentimes these waves of reflected light would break up suddenly into a kind of beaten foam, and again, after chasing one another in regular order, they would seem to bend forward in concentric curves, and disappear on some hillside, like sea-waves on a shelving shore. The quantity of light reflected from the bent needles was so great as to make whole groves appear as if covered with snow, while the black shadows beneath the trees greatly enhanced the effect of the silvery splendor.... The sounds of the storm corresponded gloriously with this wild exuberance of light and motion. The profound bass of the naked branches and poles booming like waterfalls; the quick, tense vibrations of the pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling hiss, now falling to a silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the dells, and the keen, metallic click of leaf on leaf—all this was heard in easy analysis when the attention was calmly bent.

I kept my lofty perch for hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy the music by itself, or to feast quietly on the delicious fragrance that was streaming past. The fragrance of the woods was less marked than that produced during warm rain, when so many balsamic buds and leaves are steeped like tea; but, from the chafing of resiny branches against each other, and the incessant attrition of myriads of needles, the gale was spiced to a very tonic degree. And besides the fragrance from these local sources there were traces of scents brought from afar. For this wind came first from the sea, rubbing against its fresh, briny waves, then distilled through the redwoods, threading rich ferny gulches, and spreading itself in broad, undulating currents over many a flower-enameled ridge of the Coast Mountains, then across the golden plains, up the purple foothills, and into these piny woods with the varied incense gathered by the way.

When the storm began to abate, I dismounted and sauntered down through the calming woods. The storm-tones died away, and, turning toward the east, I beheld the countless hosts of the forests hushed and tranquil, towering above one another on the slopes of the hills like a devout audience. The setting sun filled them with amber light, and seemed to say, while they listened, “My peace I give unto you.”

As I gazed on the impressive scene, all the so-called ruin of the storm was forgotten, and never before did these noble woods appear so fresh, so joyous, so immortal.—From “The Mountains of California.” Copyright by _The Century Company_, New York, and used by their kind permission.

AN UNEXPECTED ADVENTURE

BY JOHN MUIR

A wild scene, but not a safe one, is made by the moon as it appears through the edge of the Yosemite Fall when one is behind it. Once, after enjoying the night-song of the waters and watching the formation of the colored bow as the moon came round the domes and sent her beams into the wild uproar, I ventured out on the narrow bench that extends back of the fall from Fern Ledge and began to admire the dim-veiled grandeur of the view. I could see the fine, gauzy threads of the fall’s filmy border by having the light in front; and wishing to look at the moon through the meshes of some of the denser portions of the fall, I ventured to creep further behind it while it was gently wind-swayed, without taking sufficient thought about the consequences of its swaying back to its natural position after the wind-pressure should be removed. The effect was enchanting: fine, savage music sounding above, beneath, around me; while the moon, apparently in the very midst of the rushing waters, seemed to be struggling to keep her place, on account of the ever-varying form and density of the water-masses through which she was seen, now darkly veiled or eclipsed by a rush of thick-headed comets, now flashing out through openings between their tails. I was in fairyland between the dark wall and the wild throng of illumined waters, but suffered sudden disenchantment; for, like the witch-scene in Alloway Kirk, “in an instant all was dark.” Down came a dash of spent comets, thin and harmless-looking in the distance, but they felt desperately solid and stony when they struck my shoulders, like a mixture of choking spray and gravel and big hailstones. Instinctively dropping on my knees, I gripped an angle of the rock, curled up like a young fern frond with my face pressed against my breast, and in this attitude submitted as best I could to my thundering bath. The heavier masses seemed to strike like cobblestones, and there was a confused noise of many waters about my ears—hissing, gurgling, clashing sounds that were not heard as music. The situation was quickly realized. How fast one’s thoughts burn in such times of stress! I was weighing chances of escape. Would the column be swayed a few inches away from the wall, or would it come yet closer? The fall was in flood and not so lightly would its ponderous mass be swayed. My fate seemed to depend on a breath of the “idle wind.” It was moved gently forward, the pounding ceased, and I was once more visited by glimpses of the moon. But fearing I might be caught at a disadvantage in making too hasty a retreat, I moved only a few feet along the bench to where a block of ice lay. I wedged myself between the ice and the wall, and lay face downwards, until the steadiness of the light gave encouragement to rise and get away. Somewhat nerve-shaken, drenched, and benumbed, I made out to build a fire, warmed myself, ran home, reached my cabin before daylight, got an hour or two of sleep, and awoke sound and comfortable, better, not worse, for my hard midnight bath.—From “The Yosemite.” Copyright by _The Century Co._, New York, and used by their kind permission.

THE TORTURE OF THE STRAIT-JACKET

BY JACK LONDON

Have you ever seen canvas tarpaulins or rubber blankets with brass eyelets set in along the edges? Then imagine a piece of stout canvas, some four and one-half feet in length, with large and heavy brass eyelets running down both edges. The width of this canvas is never the full girth of the human body it is to surround. The width is also irregular—broadest at the shoulders, next broadest at the hips, and narrowest at the waist.

The jacket is spread on the floor. The man who is to be punished, or who is to be tortured for confession, is told to lie face-downward on the flat canvas. If he refuses, he is man-handled. After that he lays himself down with a will, which is the will of the hang-dogs, which is your will, dear citizen, who feeds and fees the hang-dogs for doing this thing for you.

The man lies face-downward. The edges of the jacket are brought as nearly together as possible along the center of the man’s back. Then a rope, on the principle of a shoe-lace, is run through the eyelets, and on the principle of shoe-lacing the man is laced in the canvas. Only he is laced more severely than any person ever laces his shoe. They call it “cinching” in prison lingo. On occasion, when the guards are cruel and vindictive or when the command has come down from above, in order to insure the severity of the lacing the guards press with their feet into the man’s back as they draw the lacing tight.

Have you ever laced your shoe too tightly, and, after half an hour experienced that excruciating pain across the instep of the obstructed circulation? And do you remember that after a few minutes of such pain you simply could not walk another step and had to untie the shoe-lace and ease the pressure? Very well. Then try to imagine your whole body so laced, only much more tightly, and that the squeeze, instead of being merely on the instep of one foot, is on your entire trunk, compressing to the seeming of death your heart, your lungs, and all the rest of your vital and essential organs.

I remember the first time they gave me the jacket down in the dungeons. It was at the beginning of my incorrigibility, shortly after my entrance to prison, when I was weaving my loom-task of a hundred yards a day in the jute mill and finishing two hours ahead of the average day. Yes, and my jute-sacking was far above the average demanded. I was sent to the jacket that first time, according to the prison books, because of “skips” and “breaks” in the cloth, in short, because my work was defective. Of course this was ridiculous. In truth, I was sent to the jacket because I, a new convict, a master of efficiency, a trained expert in the elimination of waste motion, had elected to tell the stupid head-weaver a few things he did not know about his business. And the head-weaver, with Captain Jamie present, had me called to the table where atrocious weaving, such as could never have gone through my loom, was exhibited against me. Three times was I thus called to the table. The third calling meant punishment according to the loom-room rules. My punishment was twenty-four hours in the jacket.

They took me down into the dungeon. I was ordered to lie face-downward on the canvas spread flat upon the floor. I refused. One of the guards, Morrison, gulleted me with his thumbs. Mobins, the dungeon trusty, a convict himself, struck me repeatedly with his fists. In the end I lay down as directed. And, because of the struggle I had vexed them with, they laced me extra tight. Then they rolled me over like a log upon my back.

It did not seem so bad at first. When they closed my door, with a clang and clash of levered boltage, and left me in the utter dark, it was eleven o’clock in the morning. For a few minutes I was aware merely of an uncomfortable constriction which I fondly believed would ease as I grew accustomed to it. On the contrary, my heart began to thump and my lungs seemed unable to draw sufficient air for my blood. This sense of suffocation was terrorizing, and every thump of the heart threatened to burst my already bursting lungs.

After what seemed hours, and after what, out of my countless succeeding experiences in that jacket I can now fairly conclude to have been not more than half an hour, I began to cry out, to yell, to scream, to howl, in a very madness of dying. The trouble was the pain that had arisen in my heart. It was a sharp, definite pain, similar to that of pleurisy, except that it stabbed hotly through the heart itself.

To die is not a difficult thing, but to die in such slow and horrible fashion was maddening. Like a trapped beast of the wild, I experienced ecstasies of fear, and yelled and howled until I realized that such vocal exercise merely stabbed my heart more hotly and at the same time consumed much of the little air in my lungs.

I gave over and lay quiet for a long time—an eternity it seemed then though now I am confident that it could have been no longer than a quarter of an hour. I grew dizzy with semi-asphyxiation, and my heart thumped until it seemed surely it would burst the canvas that bound me. Again I lost control of myself and set up a mad howling for help.

In the midst of this I heard a voice from the next dungeon.

“Shut up,” it shouted, though only faintly it percolated to me. “Shut up. You make me tired.”

“I’m dying,” I cried out.

“Pound your ear and forget it,” was the reply.

“But I am dying,” I insisted.

“Then why worry?” came the voice. “You’ll be dead pretty quick an’ out of it. Go ahead and croak, but don’t make so much noise about it. You’re interruptin’ my beauty sleep.”

So angered was I by this callous indifference, that I recovered self-control and was guilty of no more than smothered groans.—From “The Star Rover.” Copyrighted by _The Macmillan Co._, New York, and used with their kind permission.

A SON OF COPPER SIN

BY HERMAN WHITAKER

Within his bull’s-hide tepee, old Iz-le-roy lay and fed his little fire, stick by stick. He was sick, very sick—sick with the sickness which is made up of equal parts of hunger, old age, fever and despair. Just one week before his tribe had headed up for Winnipegoos, where the whitefish may be had for the taking and the moose winter in their yards. But a sick man may not travel the long trail, so Iz-le-roy had remained at White Man’s Lake. And Batiste, his son, stayed also. Not that it was expected of him, for, according to forest law, the man who cannot hunt had better die; but Batiste had talked with the gentle priest of Ellice, and had chosen to depart from the custom of his fathers.

And things had gone badly, very badly, since the tribe had marched. North, south, east and west, the round of the plains, and through the leafless woods, the boy had hunted without as much as a jack-rabbit falling to his gun. For two days no food had passed their lips, and now he was gone forth to do that which Iz-le-roy had almost rather die than have him do—ask aid of the settlers.

“Yea, my son,” the old warrior had faltered, “these be they that stole the prairies of our fathers. Yet it may be that Big Laugh, best of an evil brood, will give us of his store of flour and bacon.”

So, after placing a plentiful stock of wood close to the old man’s hand, Batiste had closed the tepee flap and laced it. At the end of an hour’s fast walking, during which the northern sky grew dark with the threat of still more cruel weather, he sighted through the drift a spurting column of smoke.

The smoke marked the cabin of John Sterling, and also his present occupation. Within, John sat and fired the stove, while Avis, his daughter, set out the breakfast dishes, and his wife turned the sizzling bacon in the pan.

“I declare,” exclaimed the woman, pausing, knife in hand, “if that bread ain’t froze solid!”

“Cold last night,” commented Sterling. “Put it in the oven, Mary.”

As she stooped to obey, the door quietly opened and Batiste slipped in. His moose moccasins made no noise, and he was standing close beside her when she straightened. She jumped and gasped:

“Lor’ ’a’ mercy! How you do scare one! Why don’t you knock?”

Batiste stared. It was the custom of his tribe thus to enter a house, a custom established before jails were built or locks invented. His eye therefore roamed questioningly from one to another until Sterling asked:

“What d’ye want, young fellow?”

Batiste pointed to the frying pan. “Bakin!” he muttered. “The bakin of Big Laugh, I want. Iz-le-roy sick, plenty sick. Him want flour, him want ba-kin.”

The thought of his father’s need flashed into his mind, and realizing the impossibility of expressing himself in English, he broke into a voluble stream of Cree, punctuating its rolling gutturals with energetic signs. While he was speaking, Avis ceased rattling her dishes.

“He looks awfully hungry, dad,” she whispered, as Batiste finished.

Now, though Sterling was a large-souled, generous man, and jovial—as evidenced by his name of Big Laugh—it happened that, during the past summer, a roving band of Sioux had camped hard by and begged him out of patience. That morning, too, the threatening weather had spoiled an intended trip to Russel and touched his temper—of which he had a goodly share.

“Can’t help it, girl,” he snapped. “If we feed every hungry Injun that comes along, we’ll soon be out of house and home. Can’t do anything for you, boy.”

“Him want ba-kin,” Batiste said.

“Well, you can just want.”

“Iz-le-roy sick, him want ba-kin,” the boy pleaded.

His persistence irritated Sterling, and, crowding down the better feeling which spoke for the lad, he sprang up, threw wide the door, and shouted:

“Get, you son of copper sin! Get, now! Quick!”

“Father!” pleaded the girl.

But he took no heed, and held wide the door.

Into Batiste’s face flashed surprise, anger and resentment. Surprise, because he had not believed all the things Iz-le-roy had told him of the white men, but had preferred to think them all like Father Francis. But now? His father was right. They were all cold and merciless, their hearts hard as their steel ax-heads, their tongues sharp as the cutting edge. With head held high he marched through the door, away from the hot stove, the steaming coffee, and the delicious smell of frying bacon, out into the cold storm.

“Oh, father!” remonstrated his wife, as Sterling closed the door.

“Look here, Mary,” he answered testily, “we fed a whole tribe last summer, didn’t we?”

“But this lad don’t belong to them,” she pleaded.

“All the worse,” he rejoined. “Do an Injun a good turn an’ he never forgets. Give him his breakfast, an’ he totes his tribe along to dinner.”

“Well,” sighed the good woman, “I’m real sorry.”

For a few moments both were silent. And presently, as the man’s kindly nature began to triumph over his irritation, he hitched uneasily in his chair. Already he felt ashamed. Casting a sheepish glance at his wife, he rose, walked to the door, and looked out. But a wall of whirling white blocked his vision. Batiste was gone beyond recall.

“Where’s Avis?” he asked, returning to the stove.

“A-vis!” called her mother.

But there was no answer. For a moment man and wife stared each other in the eye; then, moved by a common impulse, they walked into the kitchen. There, on the table, lay the half of a fresh-cut side of bacon; the bread-box was open and a crusty loaf missing; the girl’s shawl was gone from its peg and her overshoes from their corner.

“Good God!” gasped the settler. “The child’s gone after him!”

They knew the risk. All the morning the storm had been brewing, and now it thundered by, a veritable blizzard. The blizzard! King of storms! It compels the settler to string a wire from house to stables, it sets men to circling in the snow, it catches little children coming home from school and buries them in its monstrous drifts.

Without another word Sterling wound a scarf about his neck, grabbed his badger mitts, and rushed outside.

When Avis softly closed the kitchen door she could just see Batiste rounding a bluff that lay a furlong west of her father’s stables. She started after him; but by the time she had covered half the distance a sea of white swept in between and blotted him from view.

She struggled on, and on, and still on, until, in spite of the seventy degrees of frost, the perspiration burst from every pore and the scud melted on her glowing face. This was well enough—so long as she kept moving; but when the time came that she must stop, she would freeze all the quicker for her present warmth.

This, being born and bred of the prairie, Avis knew, and the knowledge kept her toiling, toiling on, until her tired legs and leaden feet compelled a pause in the shelter of a bluff. She was hungry, too. All this time she carried the bread and meat, and now, unconscious of a pair of slant eyes which glared from a willow thicket, she broke the loaf and began to eat. While she ate, the green lights in the eyes flared brighter, a long red tongue licked the drool from grinning jaws, and forth from his covert stole a lank, gray wolf.

Avis uttered a startled cry. This was no coyote, to be chased with a stick, but a wolf of timber stock, a great beast, heavy, prick-eared, strong as a mastiff. His nose puckered in a wicked snarl as he slunk in half-circles across her front. He was undecided. So, while he circled, trying to make up his mind, drawing a little nearer at every turn, Avis fell back—back towards the bluff, keeping her white face always to the creeping beast.

It was a small bluff, lacking a tree large enough to climb, but sufficient for her purpose. On its edge she paused, threw the bacon to the wolf, and then ran desperately. Once clear of the scrub, she ran on, plunging through drifts, stumbling, falling, to rise again and push her flight. Of direction she took no heed; her only thought was to place distance between herself and the red-mouthed brute. But when, weary and breathless, she paused for rest, out of the drab drift stole the lank, gray shadow.

The brute crouched a few yards away, licking his sinful lips, winking his devil eyes. She still had the loaf. As she threw it, the wolf sprang and snapped it in mid-air. Then she ran, and ran, and ran, as the tired doe runs from the hounds. For what seemed to her an interminable time, though it was less than five minutes, she held on; then stopped, spent, unable to take another step. Looking back, she saw nothing of the wolf; but just when she began to move slowly forward, thinking he had given up the chase, a gray shape loomed right ahead.

Uttering a bitter cry, she turned once more, tottered a few steps, and fainted.

As, wildly calling his daughter’s name, Sterling rushed by his stables, the wind smote him with tremendous power. Like a living thing it buffeted him about the ears, tore at his breath, poured over him an avalanche of snow. Still he pressed on and gained the bluff which Avis missed.

As he paused to draw a free breath, his eye picked out a fresh-made track. Full of a sudden hope, he shouted. A voice answered, and as he rushed eagerly forward a dark figure came through the drift to meet him. It was Batiste.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Sterling was cruelly disappointed, but he answered quickly: “You see my girl? Yes, my girl,” he repeated, noting the lad’s look of wonder. “Young white squaw, you see um?”

“Mooniah papoose?” queried Batiste.

“Yes, yes! She follow you. Want give you bread, want give you bacon. All gone, all lost!” Sterling finished with a despairing gesture.

“Squaw marche to me? Ba-kin for me?” questioned Batiste.

“Yes, yes!” cried Sterling, in a flurry of impatience.

“I find um,” he said, softly.

Briefly Batiste laid down his plan, eking out his scanty English with vivid signs. In snow, the white man rolls along like a clumsy buffalo, planting his feet far out to the right and left. And because his right leg steps a little further than the left, he always, when lost, travels in a circle. Wherefore Batiste indicated that they should move along parallel lines, just shouting distance apart, so as to cover the largest possible ground.

“Young squaw marche slow. She there!” He pointed north and east with a gesture. “Yes, there!”

Batiste paused until Sterling got his distance; then, keeping the wind slanting to his left cheek, he moved off north and east. Ever and anon he stopped to give forth a piercing yell. If Sterling answered, he moved on; if not—as happened twice—he traveled in his direction until they were once more in touch. And so, shouting and yelling, they bore off north and east for a long half-hour.

After that, Batiste began to throw his cries both east and west, for he judged that they must be closing on the girl. And suddenly, from the north, came a weird, tremulous answer. He started, and throwing up his head, emitted the wolf’s long howl. Leaning forward, he waited—his very soul in his ears—until, shrill yet deep-chested and quivering with ferocity, came back the answering howl.

No coyote gave forth that cry, and Batiste knew it.

“Timber wolf!” he muttered.

Turning due north, he gave the settler a warning yell, then sped like a hunted deer in the direction of the cry. He ran with the long, lithe lope which tires down even the swift elk, and in five minutes covered nearly a mile. Once more he gave forth the wolf howl. An answer came close by, but as he sprang forward it ended with a frightened yelp. Through a break in the drift he spied a moving figure; then a swirl swept in and blotted it from view.

But he had seen the girl. A dozen leaps and he was close upon her. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, she screamed and plunged headlong.

When consciousness returned, Avis was lying on her own bed. Her mother bent over her; Sterling stood near by. All around were the familiar things of life, but her mind still retained a vivid picture of her flight, and she sprang up screaming:

“The wolf; oh, the wolf!”

“Hush, dearie,” her mother soothed. “It wasn’t a wolf, but just the Cree boy.”

Batiste had told how she screamed at the sight of his gray, snow-covered blanket, and the cry had carried even to her father. But when she recovered sufficiently to tell her story, the father shuddered and the mother exclaimed:

“John, we owe that boy more than we can ever pay!”

“We do!” he fervently agreed.

Just then the latch of the other door clicked, and a cold blast streamed into the bedroom. Jumping up, the mother cried:

“Run, John; he’s going!”

“Here, young fellow!” shouted the settler.

Batiste paused in the doorway, his hand on the latch, his slight body silhouetted against the white of the storm.

“Where you going, boy?”

“To Iz-le-roy,” he answered. “Him sick. Bezhou!”

Sterling strode forward and caught him by the shoulder. “No, you don’t,” he said, “not that way.” Then, turning, he called into the bedroom: “Here, mother! Get out all your wraps while I hitch the ponies. And fix up our best bed for a sick man.”—From “The Probationer,” copyright and used by the kind permission of author and publishers, _Harper & Brothers_, New York.

SOMBRE[7]

BY WILLIAM WETMORE STORY

Long golden beams from the setting sun swept over the plains of Andalusia, and fell upon the Geralda tower of the great cathedral of Sevilla, many miles in the distance. In their path they illumined a stretch of vast pastures enclosed by whitened stone walls, and dotted with magnificent cattle. In a far corner of one of the enclosures the figure of a young girl passed through an arched stone gateway. As she paused to look upon the scattered groups of grazing beasts, the level rays played in lights and shadows upon the waving masses of dark chestnut hair, richly health-tinted young face, creamy neck, and large, lustrous eyes now painfully dry, as if tears were exhausted. She gazed from group to group, calling eagerly, “Sombre! Sombre!”

A pair of long, gleaming horns rose abruptly amid the browsing herd, and a magnificent bull came towards her at a brisk trot. The sunbeams glinted upon his dark coat as it swelled and sank under the play of powerful muscles. His neck and shoulders were leonine in massive strength, the legs and hind-quarters as sleek and symmetrical as those of a race-horse, but his ferociousness was held in check by that devoted love dumb animals express for those who love them.

In a moment the young girl’s white arms were thrown around the animal’s dusky neck, and her cheek was lain against the silken skin. “Oh, Sombre!” she murmured, “do you know what they are going to do with you? Papa wants to send you to the Plaza de Toros! I have begged him in vain to spare you. Does he think after Anita has brought you from a tiny calf to be such a beautiful, dear toro that she can give you to the cruel matador to be tortured, made crazy and killed?”

She was sobbing bitterly, and the devoted beast was striving vainly to turn his head far enough to lick the fair neck bending down upon his. Presently the sobbing ceased, and she stroked the strong shoulders with her small hand.

“Never fear, Sombre, if they take you to Sevilla Anita will find a way to save you! Now, say good night.”

Sombre thrust out his huge tongue and licked the little hand and arms. Then she bent forward and kissed him on the frowning, furry forehead and departed.

Anita’s path homeward lay through another field where a herd of cattle were being driven. A young herdsman, riding a strong horse at a brisk canter, saw the young girl enter from the adjoining pasture. With joyful exclamation in English he rode towards her calling, “Anita, have you seen the posters?”

Waiting until he reached her side, with bated breath she asked, “Is—is Sombre advertised?”

“Yes, on the outer gateway. But here, I have a poster in my pocket.”

_Plaza de Toros de Sevilla May 17. Anniversary of the King’s Birthday, Six Bulls to be killed, The two magnificent brother bulls Sol and Sombre, and others very ferocious, against The intrepid Matadores, Lariato, the American, and Amador, of Sevilla._

“It is cruel of them, cruel! (Reading) ‘Lariato, the American.’ Why, that is yourself! You will spare him! You will spare my Sombre!”

“They do not permit me to fight Don Alonzo’s bulls, for I raise them and they would not fight me. Amador will fight Sombre.”

“No, no! You must fight Sombre. That wicked Amador will kill him!”

“But so would I, Anita, or be killed by him!”

Anita was silent for a time; suddenly she exclaimed: “Orlando, do you love me well enough to put faith in a promise which will seem impossible of fulfillment?”

“God knows I do!”

“Then listen; if Sombre goes to the Plaza de Toros, you must fight him and spare him even though they hiss and jeer at you.”

“Death is easier. Perhaps the managers will let me fight him, for you have raised him, and I can tell them that I have scarcely seen him. I will fight him, Anita, and for your sake I will let him kill me!”

“No, no, Orlando, for this is my promise, even in the last extremity Sombre shall not harm you!”

“And then, Anita!”

“Then I will leave my father’s house and go with you. We will buy Sombre and go to those plains in your country you love so to tell about. You will become a ranch hero, and Sombre shall be the patriarch of our herd!”

“I have tried that once and failed!”

“Ah, but you had neither Sombre nor Anita then!” And waving him a kiss she ran off across the field.

On the 17th of May, in the Plaza de Toros, there was a murmur from thousands of throats like the magnified hum of bees. Amador of Sevilla had killed several bulls and now there was a short intermission. In a stall of the lowest tier sat Anita alone. Presently a band of music began a stately march, and under a high stone archway a long procession advanced. First, gaudily caparisoned picadors on blindfolded studs, two by two, separated and came to a halt, facing the center, with long lances abreast. Then red-coated toreadors carrying long barbs, with brilliant streamers of ribbon, grouped themselves near the heavy closed doors of the bull-pen; finally, the capeadors in yellow satin, carrying flaming red capes on their arms, filed around like the mounted picadors and stood between their studs.

The music ceased, the murmur of voices died away, and the gates of the bull-pen were thrown open. At a quick trot, a great black bull dashed in, receiving in his shoulders as he passed the toreador’s two short barbs. Anita gripped her chair and gasped, “Sombre!”

Coming from a darkened pen, Sombre had trotted eagerly forward, expecting to find himself once more in his loved pastures, but he paused, bewildered in the glare of light. Hither and thither he turned in nervous abruptness, his head raised high, his tail slowly lashing his flanks. Then he lowered his grand head and sniffed the earth, and then he smelled fresh, warm blood, the blood of his own kind. With gathering rage he lowered his keen horns close to the ground and gave a deep, hoarse bellow of defiance, flinging clod after clod with his forefeet high above his back. Then there flaunted toward him a red object at which he charged, but it swept aside, and a new sting of pain was felt in his neck, and warm blood was trickling over his glossy skin. Again and again he charged, but each time the red thing vanished and there was more pain, more torturing barbs that maddened him.

Presently a horseman advanced with lowered spear. Surely horse and rider could not vanish. Ah, no! Sombre found that it was not intended that they should. Rushing upon them he struck them with such a blow that they were forced backwards twenty feet and both gave a scream of pain. The picador was dragged away with a broken leg, and the horse lay lifeless, for Sombre’s horn had pierced its heart. Instantly a great cry went up from that crater of humanity, “Bravo! Bravo, Toro! Bravo, Sombre!”

More than once he earned that grand applause, then his tormentors disappeared and through one of the archways advanced a young man tall and athletic. On his left arm hung a scarlet mantle, and in his right hand he carried a long, keen sword. Passing under the archway, the matador swept his sword in military salute, then with lowered point he stepped into the arena and faced his antagonist. Upon all fell an awful silence, for Lariato and Sombre were met in a struggle to the death!

For a time the combatants stood motionless, eyeing each other intently. Then came stealthy movements, hither and thither, then thundering, desperate charges, and graceful, hair-breadth escapes. At last in one great charge, Sombre’s horn tore the mantle from Lariato’s arm and carrying it half around the ring, as a flaming banner, the bull ground and trampled it in the dust. A slight hissing was heard in the audience which turned to thundering applause when Lariato contemptuously refused a new mantle! The audience became breathless, the man alone was now the mad beast’s target!

Sombre, dripping with blood and perspiration, his flanks swelling and falling in his great gasps for breath, his eyes half blinded by the dust and glare of the arena, gave the matador one brief glance, then with head low down, charged upon him. Lariato’s long keen blade was lowered confidently to its death-dealing slant.

Just as the murderous sword-point seemed about to sink through the bull’s shoulders, into his very heart, a despairing woman’s cry reached the matador’s ears. Then a mighty hiss, interspersed with hoots and jeers, went up from the exasperated spectators, for the bull thundered on, with the sword scarcely penetrating the tough muscles, standing upright between his shoulders, while Lariato stood disarmed.

Coming to a standstill far beyond his antagonist, Sombre shook his huge neck and the sword spun high into the air and fell toward the center of the ring. Lariato took several steps toward it, but tottered and fell upon the ground in a swoon, for he had been severely bruised.

With an exultant roar, the bull rushed back to complete his victory; the hissing and the hooting was hushed, and groans of horror filled the air. Suddenly, just as the animal had gained full headway in his murderous charge, a slight, white figure glided into the ring, and a clear voice cried “Sombre!”

At the sound of that voice, the charging beast came strainingly to a halt, threw up his head, and gazed eagerly about, then turned and rushed toward the girl! Capeadors hurried forward flaunting their red capes, but she waved them back.

“Go back! You shall torment him no more, my poor, tortured, wounded Sombre!”

In a moment the great beast was beside her, licking her dress and arms and hands. As she deftly extricated the barbs from his neck and shoulders, the thousands of throats around them shrieked out a vast pandemonium of bravos. Blood was covering her hands and staining her dress, but Anita was blind to it. Meanwhile Lariato had struggled to his feet and hurried towards her. “God bless you,” he was saying, but she pushed past him with a glad smile, saying, “Wait, I have something to say to them!”

Standing in the middle of the ring, Anita waited for silence. Delaying until not a sound was heard, she said in a clear voice that reached every ear:

“Jeer not at Lariato; he spared my pet, my Sombre, because he loved me.”

No matador ever gained such applause as followed. Bouquets, sombreros, scarfs, and full purses showered into the ring, and as that strange group stood facing the ovation, “Bravo, Lariato, Bravo, la Señorita de Toros, Bravo, Sombre!” rang out and reëchoed over the distant housetops.

A COMBAT IN THE ARENA

BY GEORGE CROLY

A portal of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle thrown over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. The lion roared and ramped against the bars of his den at the sight. The guard put a sword and buckler into the hands of the Christian, and he was left alone. He drew the mantle from his face, and bent a slow and firm look around the amphitheater. His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised a universal shout of admiration. He might have stood for an Apollo encountering the Python. His eyes at last turned on mine. Could I believe my senses? Constantius was before me.

All my rancour vanished. An hour past, I could have struck the betrayer of the heart—I could have called on the severest vengeance of man and heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hopelessly doomed, the man whom I had honored for his noble qualities, whom I had even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of giving way to the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of man; to see the noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn piecemeal before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I would have supplicated earth and heaven to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would have thrown myself at the feet of Nero; but I sat like a man of stone—pale—paralyzed—the beating of my pulse stopped—my eyes alone alive.

The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a roar and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword glitter in the air; when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the largest of Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of prodigious power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of his prey, crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim’s throat. He was met by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible. A cry of natural horror rang round the amphitheater. The struggle was now for an instant, life or death. They rolled over each other; the lion, reared upon his hind feet with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the man; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. The sword now swung round the Christian’s head in bloody circles. They fell again, covered with blood and dust. The hand of Constantius had grasped the lion’s mane, and the furious bounds of the monster could not lose his hold; but his strength was evidently giving way—he still struck his terrible blows, but each was weaker than the one before; till, collecting his whole force for a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion’s throat and sank. The savage beast yelled, and spouting out blood, fled howling around the arena. But the hand still grasped the mane, and the conqueror was dragged whirling through the dust at his heels. A universal outcry now arose to save him, if he were not already dead. But the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was still too terrible, and all shrank from the hazard. At last, the grasp gave way, and the body lay motionless on the ground.

What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a struggle at the portal; a female forced her way through the guards, rushed in alone, and flung herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused the lion; he tore the ground with his talons; he lashed his streaming sides with his tail; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs. But his approaching was no longer with a bound; he dreaded the sword, and came sniffing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still diminishing.

The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into indignant clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign.

I looked upon the woman’s face; it was Salome! I sprang upon my feet. I called on her name; called on her, by every feeling of nature, to fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies of all that loved her.

She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, and, calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon me. She still knelt; one hand supported the head—with the other she pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the silence of death among the thousands around me. A fire dashed into her eye—her cheek burned—she waved her hand with an air of superb sorrow.

“I am come to die,” she uttered, in a lofty tone. “This bleeding body was my husband—I have no father. The world contains to me but this clay in my arms. Yet,” and she kissed the ashy lips before her, “yet, my Constantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied the peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil that you abandoned your quiet home!—Yes, cruel father, here lies the noble being that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the conflagration, that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how he might preserve and protect you.” Tears at length fell in floods from her eyes. “But,” said she, in tones of wild power, “he was betrayed, and may the Power whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down just retribution upon the head that dared—”

I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of my own child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side. The height stunned me; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of his white fangs above me.

An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck—gore filled his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high in the air with a howl. He dropped; he was dead. The amphitheater thundered with acclamations.

With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the ground—the roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster.

The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards; the portal was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with garlands and ornaments from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the arena.

KAWEAH’S RUN

BY CLARENCE KING

As I walked over to see Kaweah at the corral, I glanced down the river, and saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile below, two horsemen ride down our bank, spur their horses into the stream, swim to the other side, and struggle up a steep bank, disappearing among bunches of cottonwood trees near the river.

They were Spaniards—the same who had swum King’s River the afternoon before, and, as it flashed on me finally, the two whom I had studied so attentively at Visalia. Then I at once saw their purpose was to waylay me, and made up my mind to give them a lively run.

I decided to strike across, and jumping into the saddle threw Kaweah into a sharp trot.

I glanced at my girth and then at the bright copper upon my pistol, and settled myself firmly.

By this time I had regained the road, which lay before me traced over the blank, objectless plain in vanishing perspective. Fifteen miles lay between me and a station; Kaweah and pistol were my only defense, yet at that moment I felt a thrill of pleasure, a wild moment of inspiration, almost worth the danger to experience.

I glanced over my shoulder and found that the Spaniards were crowding their horses to their fullest speed; their hoofs, rattling on the dry plain, were accompanied by inarticulate noises, like the cries of bloodhounds. Kaweah comprehended the situation. I could feel his grand legs gather under me, and the iron muscles contract with excitement; he tugged at the bit, shook his bridle-chains, and flung himself impatiently into the air.

It flashed upon me that perhaps they had confederates concealed in some ditch far in advance of me, and that the plan was to crowd me through at fullest speed, giving up the chase to new men and fresh horses; and I resolved to save Kaweah to the utmost, and only allow him a speed which should keep me out of gunshot. So I held him firmly, and reserved my spur for the last emergency. Still we fairly flew over the plain, and I said to myself, as the clatter of hoofs and din of my pursuers rang in my ears now and then, as the freshening breeze hurried it forward, that, if those brutes got me, there was nothing in blood and brains; for Kaweah was a prince beside their mustangs, and I ought to be worth two villains.

For the first twenty minutes the road was hard and smooth and level; after that gentle, shallow undulations began, and at last, at brief intervals, were sharp, narrow arroyos (ditches eight or nine feet wide). I reined Kaweah in, and brought him up sharply on their bottoms, giving him the bit to spring up on the other side; but he quickly taught me better, and, gathering, took them easily, without my feeling it in his stride.

The hot sun had arisen. I saw with anxiety that the tremendous speed began to tell painfully on Kaweah. Foam tinged with blood fell from his mouth, and sweat rolled in streams from his whole body, and now and then he drew a deep-heaving breath. I leaned down and felt of the cinch to see if it had slipped forward, but, as I had saddled him with great care, it kept its true place, so I had only to fear the greasers behind, or a new relay ahead. I was conscious of plenty of reserved speed in Kaweah, whose powerful run was already distancing their fatigued mustangs.

As we bounded down a roll of the plain, a cloud of dust sprang from a ravine directly in front of me, and two black objects lifted themselves in the sand. I drew my pistol, cocked it, whirled Kaweah to the left, plunging by them and clearing by about six feet; a thrill of relief came as I saw the long, white horns of Spanish cattle gleam above the dust.

Unconsciously I restrained Kaweah too much, and in a moment the Spaniards were crowding down upon me at a fearful rate. On they came, the crash of their spurs and the clatter of their horses distinctly heard; and as I had so often compared the beats of chronometers, I unconsciously noted that while Kaweah’s, although painful, yet came with regular power, the mustangs’ respiration was quick, spasmodic, and irregular. I compared the intervals of the two mustangs, and found that one breathed better than the other, and then, upon counting the best mustang with Kaweah, found that he breathed nine breaths to Kaweah’s seven. In two or three minutes I tried it again, finding the relation ten to seven; then I felt the victory, and I yelled to Kaweah. The thin ears shot flat back upon his neck; lower and lower he lay down to his run. I flung him a loose rein, and gave him a friendly pat on the withers. It was a glorious burst of speed; the wind rushed by and the plain swept under us with dizzying swiftness. I shouted again, and the thing of nervous life under me bounded on wilder and faster, till I could feel his spine thrill as with shocks from a battery. I managed to look round—a delicate matter of speed—and saw, far behind, the distanced villains, both dismounted, and one horse fallen.

In an instant I drew Kaweah into a gentle trot, looking around every moment, lest they should come on me unawares. In a half-mile I reached the station, and I was cautiously greeted by a man who sat by the barn door, with a rifle across his knees. He had seen me come over the plain, and had also seen the Spanish horse fall. Not knowing but he might be in league with the robbers, I gave him a careful glance before dismounting and was completely reassured by an expression of terror which had possession of his countenance.

I sprang to the ground and threw off the saddle, and after a word or two with the man, who proved to be the sole occupant of this station, we fell to work together upon Kaweah, my cocked pistol and his rifle lying close at hand. We sponged the creature’s mouth, and, throwing a sheet over him, walked him regularly up and down for about three-quarters of an hour, and then taking him upon the open plain, where we could scan the horizon in all directions, gave him a thorough grooming. I never saw him look so magnificently as when we led him down to the creek to drink: his skin was like satin, and the veins of his head and neck stood out firm and round like whip-cords.—From “Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada.” Copyright and used by kind permission of the publishers, _Chas. Scribner’s Sons_, New York.

A HERO OF THE FURNACE-ROOM

ANONYMOUS

The duty of the boiler-makers on warships is of the most dangerous nature. In action, between actions, and out of action the repairs that they are called upon at a moment’s notice to effect are sufficient to send a chill of fear through the hearts of most men. They will creep right inside a boiler or furnace which had but a few moments before been full of boiling liquid or hot coals. They will screw up nuts and fasten bolts or repair leaking pipes or joints in places that other men would consider impossible to approach. While the ship’s big guns are making the vessel tremble, and the enemy’s shells are bursting in every direction, these men, with positively reckless fearlessness, will venture down into the bowels of the fighting ship, amid roaring machinery, hissing steam, and flaming fires, to rectify an accident which, unrepaired, might send the ship and all her human freight to the bottom more easily and more surely and more quickly than shell or shot from the best guns of the enemy. These men are heroes.

The _Castine_, when she went to work to batter the walls of San Juan, carried on board three of these boiler-makers, Fish, another, and one Huntley, of Norfolk, Virginia. The _Castine_ went into action under full steam, her triple screws revolving at the fullest speed, and her battery of eight guns started her quivering with excitement and the fierce delight of battle. The furnaces were heated almost to white heat, and the forced draught was urging the flames to greater heat, the boiling water to the higher production of steam, the engines to increasing revolutions. Suddenly, without expectation, without warning, far down in the furnace hole, unheard by officer or man, amid the din of battle, the thundering reverberations of exploding gun-powder, there arose a fierce hissing noise right inside one of the furnaces; and all those who heard it trembled as no guns or shot or shell had power to make them tremble.

A socket bolt in the back connection at the very farthest interior extremity of the furnace had become loose. A leak had been sprung; the steam was pouring in upon the fire, threatening in a few moments to put it out and stop the progress of the ship if it did not have the more awful effect of causing a terrible explosion and annihilation!

The faces of the men below, in that moment of terrible suspense, blanched beneath the grime that covered them. None knew what to do save to wait the awful coming of the shock they knew must come.

None? Nay, but there was one! The first to pull himself together, the first to whom returned the fear-driven senses, was boiler-maker Huntley. His name does not appear on the navy list. Even his first name was unknown to his confrère, Fish. Only boiler-maker Huntley, of Norfolk, Virginia. But that is enough, and the annals of fame whenever and wherever the story of the United States and her navy is told.

One instant of startled horror—then, without hesitation, without trepidation, with stern-set jaws and fierce, devoted determination on every line of face and form—

“Turn off the forced draught!” he cried.

“Goodness, Huntley, what are you going to do?”

“Bank the fire! Quick!”

“It’s certain death!”

“For one—unless, for all! Turn off the draught! Bank the fire!”

The orders were carried out feverishly.

“Now a plank!”

And before they could stop him this hero had flung the plank into the furnace, right on top of the black coal with which it was banked, and had himself climbed and crawled over the ragged mass, far back to where the steam was rushing like some hissing devil from the loosened socket.

For three minutes he remained inside that fearful place, and then the work was done—the ship was saved—and his friends drew him out at the door. The forced draught went to its work again, and in an instant the furnace was once more raging.

But what of Huntley? Scorched, scalded, insensible, well-nigh dead, he lay upon the iron floor of the furnace room, while around him stood his mates dousing him with water, and using every known means for his resuscitation. He did not die, but when once more he opened his eyes, and was able to be carefully lifted into daylight, there arose such cheers from the throats of those dirty, grimy mates as never greeted taking of city or sinking of fleet.

The story is briefly chronicled in the log of the _Castine_, and Huntley simply claims that he “did his duty.” But while the United States remains a nation; so long as the banner bearing the silver stars on the field of blue, above alternate stripes of red and white, remains the symbol of purity, bravery, and patriotism to American hearts the whole world over; so long, when her heroes are spoken of, one name should never be omitted—that of Boiler-maker Huntley, of Norfolk, Virginia.—From _The Toledo Blade_.

THE DEATH IN THE WHEAT

BY FRANK NORRIS

S. Behrman soon discovered his elevator. It was the largest structure discernible, and upon its red roof, in enormous white letters, was his own name. Thither, between piles of grain bags, halted drays, crates and boxes of merchandise, with an occasional pyramid of salmon cases, S. Behrman took his way. Cabled to the dock, close under his elevator, lay a great ship with lofty masts and great spars. Her stern was toward him as he approached, and upon it, in raised golden letters, he could read the words, “_Swanhilda_—Liverpool.”

He went aboard by a very steep gangway and found the mate on the quarter deck. S. Behrman introduced himself.

“Well,” he added, “how are you getting on?”

“Very fairly, sir,” returned the mate, who was an Englishman. “We’ll have her all snugged down tight by this time day after to-morrow. It’s a great saving of time shunting the stuff in her like that, and three men can do the work of seven.”

“I’ll have a look ’round, I believe,” returned S. Behrman.

“Right-o,” answered the mate with a nod.

S. Behrman went forward to the hatch that opened down into the vast hold of the ship. A great iron chute connected this hatch with the elevator, and through it was rushing a veritable cataract of wheat.

It came from some gigantic bin within the elevator itself, rushing down the confines of the chute to plunge into the roomy, gloomy interior of the hold with an incessant, metallic roar, persistent, steady, inevitable. No men were in sight. The place was deserted. No human agency seemed to be back of the movement of the wheat. Rather, the grain seemed impelled with a force of its own, a resistless, huge force, eager, vivid, impatient for the sea.

S. Behrman stood watching, his ears deafened with the roar of the hard grains against the metallic lining of the chute. He put his hand once into the rushing tide, and the contact rasped the flesh of his fingers and like an undertow drew his hand after it in its impetuous dash.

Cautiously he peered down into the hold. A musty odor rose to his nostrils, the vigorous, pungent aroma of the raw cereal. It was dark. He could see nothing; but all about and over the opening of the hatch the air was full of a fine, impalpable dust that blinded the eyes and choked the throat and nostrils.

As his eyes became used to the shadows of the cavern below him, he began to distinguish the gray mass of the wheat, a great expanse, almost liquid in its texture, which, as the cataract from above plunged into it, moved and shifted in long, slow eddies. As he stood there, this cataract on a sudden increased in volume. He turned about, casting his eyes upward toward the elevator to discover the cause. His foot caught in a coil of rope, and he fell headforemost into the hold.

The fall was a long one and he struck the surface of the wheat with the sodden impact of a bundle of damp clothes. For the moment he was stunned. All the breath was driven from his body. He could neither move nor cry out. But, by degrees, his wits steadied themselves and his breath returned to him. He looked about and above him. The daylight in the hold was dimmed and clouded by the thick chaff-dust thrown off by the pour of grain, and even this dimness dwindled to twilight at a short distance from the opening of the hatch, while the remotest quarters were lost in impenetrable blackness. He got upon his feet only to find he sunk ankle deep in the loose packed mass underfoot.

“Hell,” he muttered, “here’s a fix.”

Directly underneath the chute, the wheat, as it poured in, raised itself in a conical mound, but from the sides of this mound it shunted away incessantly in thick layers, flowing in all directions with the nimbleness of water. Even as S. Behrman spoke, a wave of grain poured around his legs and rose rapidly to the level of his knees. He stepped quickly back. To stay near the chute would soon bury him to the waist.

No doubt, there was some other exit from the hold, some companion ladder that led up to the deck. He scuffled and waddled across the wheat, groping in the dark with outstretched hands. With every inhalation he choked, filling his mouth and nostrils more with dust than with air. At times he could not breathe at all, but gagged and gasped, his lips distended. But search as he would, he could find no outlet to the hold, no stairway, no companion ladder. Again and again, staggering along in the black darkness, he bruised his knuckles and forehead against the iron sides of the ship. He gave up the attempt to find any interior means of escape and returned laboriously to the space under the open hatchway. Already he could see that the level of the wheat was raised.

“God,” he said, “this isn’t going to do at all.” He uttered a great shout. “Hello, on deck there, somebody. For God’s sake.”

The steady, metallic roar of the pouring wheat drowned out his voice. He could scarcely hear it himself above the rush of the cataract. Beside this, he found it impossible to stay under the hatch. The flying grains of wheat, spattering as they fell, stung his face like wind-driven

## particles of ice. It was a veritable torture; his hands smarted with it.

Once he was all but blinded. Furthermore, the succeeding waves of wheat, rolling from the mound under the chute, beat him back, swirling and dashing against his legs and knees, mounting swiftly higher, carrying him off his feet.

Once more he retreated, drawing back from beneath the hatch. He stood still for a moment and shouted again. It was in vain. His voice returned upon him, unable to penetrate the thunder of the chute, and horrified, he discovered that so soon as he stood motionless upon the wheat, he sank into it. Before he knew it, he was knee-deep again, and a long swirl of grain sweeping outward from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming pyramid below the chute, poured around his thighs, immobilizing him.

A frenzy of terror suddenly leaped to life within him. The horror of death, the Fear of The Trap, shook him like a dry reed. Shouting, he tore himself free of the wheat and once more scrambled and struggled towards the hatchway. He stumbled as he reached it and fell directly beneath the pour. Like a storm of small shot, mercilessly, pitilessly, the unnumbered multitude of hurtling grains flagellated and beat and tore his flesh. Blood streamed from his forehead and, thickening with the powder-like chaff-dust, blinded his eyes. He struggled to his feet once more. An avalanche from the cone of wheat buried him to his thighs. He was forced back and back and back, beating the air, falling, rising, howling for aid. He could no longer see; his eyes crammed with dust, smarted as if transfixed with needles whenever he opened them. His mouth was full of the dust; his lips were dry with it; thirst tortured him, while his outcries choked and gagged in his rasped throat.

And all the while without stop, incessantly, inexorably, the wheat, as if moving with a force all its own, shot downward in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.

He retreated to a far corner of the hold and sat down with his back against the iron hull of the ship and tried to collect his thoughts, to calm himself. Surely there must be some way of escape; surely he was not to die like this, die in this dreadful substance that was neither solid nor fluid. What was he to do? How make himself heard?

But even as he thought about this, the cone under the chute broke again and sent a great layer of grain rippling and tumbling toward him. It reached him where he sat and buried his hand and one foot.

He sprang up trembling and made for another corner.

“My God,” he cried, “my God, I must think of something pretty quick!”

Once more the level of the wheat rose and the grains began piling deeper about him. Once more he retreated. Once more he crawled, staggering to the foot of the cataract, screaming till his ears sang and his eyeballs strained in their sockets, and once more the relentless tide drove him back.

Then began that terrible dance of death; the man dodging, doubling, squirming, hunted from one corner to another; the wheat slowly, inexorably flowing, rising, spreading to every angle, to every nook and cranny. It reached his middle. Furious and with bleeding hands and broken nails, he dug his way out to fall backward, all but exhausted, gasping for breath in the dust-thickening air. Roused again by the slow advance of the tide, he leaped up and stumbled away, blinded with the agony in his eyes, only to crash against the metal hull of the vessel. He turned about, the blood streaming from his face; he paused to collect his senses, and with a rush, another wave swirled about his ankles and knees. Exhaustion grew upon him. To stand still meant to sink; to lie or sit meant to be buried the quicker; and all this in the dark, all this in the air that could not be breathed, all this while he fought an enemy that could not be gripped, toiling in a sea that could not be stayed.

Guided by the sound of the falling wheat, S. Behrman crawled on hands and knees toward the hatchway. Once more he raised his voice in a shout for help. His bleeding throat and raw, parched lips refused to utter but a wheezing moan. Once more he tried to look toward the one patch of faint light above him. His eyelids, clogged with chaff, could no longer open. The wheat poured about his waist as he raised himself upon his knees.

Reason fled. Deafened with the roar of the grain, blinded and made dumb with its chaff, he threw himself forward with clutching fingers, rolling upon his back, and lay there, moving feebly, the head rolling from side to side. The wheat, leaping continuously from the chute, poured around him. It filled the pockets of the coat, it crept up the sleeves and trouser legs, it covered the great, protuberant stomach, it ran at last in rivulets into the distended, gasping mouth. It covered the face.

Upon the surface of the wheat, under the chute, nothing moved but the wheat itself. There was no sign of life. Then, for an instant, the surface stirred. A hand, fat, with short fingers and swollen veins, reached up, clutching, then fell limp and prone. In another instant it was covered. In the hold of the _Swanhilda_ there was no movement but the widening ripples that spread flowing from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming cone; no sound, but the rushing of the wheat that continued to plunge incessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.—From “The Octopus.” Copyright and used by kind permission of the publishers, _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York.

DIALECT SELECTIONS

BOY WANTED

BY MADGE ELLIOT

One 24th of December, Mr. Oscar Blunt, who kept a large hat store in the lower part of Broadway, was writing at his desk, which was at the very end of the store, when somebody touched his elbow softly, and, looking up, was much astounded to see a ragged boy, whose old broad-brimmed hat almost hid his face, standing beside him. He was so much astonished, in fact, that he dropped his pen upon his paper, and thereby made a blot instead of a period.

“Why, my lad, how came you here?”

“I slid past some of the fellers. Wot a woppin’ big store dis is, and wot lots of fellers it takes to stan’ ’roun’, an’ I cheeked some an’ I tole de odders I had somethin’ most awful partiklar to say to de big boss.”

“And what have you most awful particular to say to me?” said the “big boss” in a kinder voice than that in which he had spoken at first, for there was something in the boy’s dark gray eyes that made him think of a darling little son he had buried only a year ago in the same grave where he had buried his wife the year before.

“Well, I seen in yer window a sigh wot reads, ‘Boy Wanted.’ An’ I’m a boy; an’ as nobody never wanted me yet, sez I to myself, sez I, ‘Dusty, ole feller, p’r’haps there’s _your_ chance at last,’ sez I, an’ in I comes.”

“Sorry, but you won’t suit at all, my boy.”

“How do you know ’fore you try a feller? I know I ain’t worry pooty, nor I hain’t got no fashnoble clothes, but I’m smart, I am. I’ve been to night-school two winters, I have, an’ got a sixth ’ward of merit, I did, wunst, an’ I kin read readin’ fust rate wen it’s only two syllabubbles an’ I kin spell it out wen it’s three syllabubbles, an’ I kin speak some four syllabubbles, an’ I can read writin’ wen it’s print-letters, an’ I kin wissel you or any oder man in des ’ere tre-men-yu-ous (four syllabubbles) old hat-box outer his boots.” And he began to whistle a lively tune so loudly, clearly and sweetly that everybody in the large store turned in amazement toward the desk, and listened.

“Yes, yes, I see you whistle remarkably well, but we don’t want a boy to whistle.”

“I kin dance too. I danced for Johnny Sniffs ben’fit when he fell inter wun of dem cole-holes in de sidewalk, and broke his leg off short, I did, ’midst thunders of applause.” And cutting a double shuffle he went off into a rollicking break-down, his big shoes wobbling about, and the broad brim of his hat flopping up and down at every step.

“Stop, stop! I tell you! I don’t want a boy to dance. You won’t do, my boy; you won’t do, as I’ve told you before. Here’s a quarter for you, and now go away.”

“I don’t want de quarter; nor I don’t want to go ’way,” persisted the boy. “I didn’t come ’way from Fishhead Alley to dis swell street to go ’way so soon. I want a sit-u-wa-tion (four syllabubbles), I do. An’ de fust thing I seen, wen I comes round de corner, was dat sign, ‘Boy Wanted.’ ‘An’ dat’s good luck,’ sez I. ‘Go in, Dusty ole feller,’ sez I. An’ I ain’t tole you haff what I kin do. Jess yez hole on a minnit. I kin see a cop furder nor any our gang; an’ wen one comes in de front door arter you, I kin give you de wink, quicker’n lightenin’, an’ out de back door you pops. An’ I kin speak pieces, I kin—‘A hoss! A hoss! my kingdom fer a hoss! Dere’s sixty Richmons in de field to-day, an’ I’ve killed every wun of dem. A hoss—’”

“Silence!” commanded Mr. Blunt; and then in spite of himself he burst into a fit of laughter and laughed until he shook again, and there was a great deal of him to shake—two hundred pounds at the very least. “Tell me something about yourself, my boy, but mind, no more performances of any kind. What is your name, and where do you live, to begin with?”

“Dusty’s my name. I don’t know no odder. One feller, he’s from the country, he is—calls me ‘Dusty Miller’; he sez ’cause dey’s a flower wot dey calls ‘Dusty Miller’ dare. I believe he’s foolin’. But if I’m de boy wot’s wanted, I must get a nobbier name dan dat. Wot’s your name, boss?”

“Mr. Oscar Blunt.”

“Well, you might call me dat, too, without de mister. It soun’s werry nice—‘Hoss car Blunt,’ or you might keep de Hoss car, an I’d be de El-e-wa-ted (four syllabubbles) Road Blunt. Any way you’ve mind to. You pay your money, and takes your choice. An’ I lives roun’ anywhere sence Aunt Kate died.”

“Aunt Kate? And was Aunt Kate your only relation? Have you no father and mother?” asked Mr. Blunt.

“Nope; never had none, ’cept Aunt Kate. An’ I ain’t no frien’s, ’cept Straw Hat. He keeps a paper stan’, he does; an’ onst he giv a party, he did, in a charcoal-box. I wos dere, an’ it wuz bully, you bet. An’ I’ve got a little brudder.”

“A little brother?”

“Yep, sir. He wuz my cousin wunst, ’fore dey took Aunt Kate away; but he’s my brudder now, an’ I got to take care of him. He jess gobbles bread and milk, an’ dat’s w’y I’m lookin’ for a sit-i-wa-tion—’nother four syllabubbles. Crackey! I’m as full of big words as a diction’ry, I am. An’ Straw Hat he sez to me, sez he, ‘If you want me to say you’re honest an’ sober an’ ’dustyous, I’ll say it,’ says he. He’s a bully good feller, he is, an’ I ain’t givin’ taffy, neider. He’s took care of me an’ my little brudder sence Aunt Kate died—dat’s lass week—but he can’t do it forev’r’n’ever.”

“And where is this little brother now?”

“Sittin’ on your stoop, waitin’ till I come out.”

“Sitting on my stoop? Why he must be half frozen, poor little fellow. Go and bring him in directly.”

The boy flew, and in a moment returned, leading by the hand a wee child, who could just walk, and whose very small nose was blue with cold, and who was wrapped in an old shawl, the ends of which dragged behind him.

“He’s a boy too, an’ he’s real pooty, an’ if he’s the kind of boy yer want, you may have him; but you must be awful good to him, an’ let me come and see him. Say, boss, to-morrer’s Chrismus day!”

“Well, and what then?”

“Wen folks all gits presents, an’ fellers wot’s got stockin’s hangs ’em up, an’ spose, boss—jess fer fun—you let me an’ my little brudder be your Chrismus present?”

“Done!” said Mr. Blunt, conquered at last by the boy’s patient and persistent coaxing. “I’ll make believe I found one in each stocking. But mind, Dusty, you must be the best of boys, and stop using slang, or I won’t keep you.”

“You kin bet you bottom dollar I’ll do everything you want me to. Horay! ain’t dis a bully racket? I’m de boy wot’s wanted in dis es-tab-lish-ment (four syllabubbles) an’ I mean to be in-wal-u-a-ble—five syllabubbles, by gracious! Mind my little brudder a minnit till I run an’ tell Straw Hat.” And before Mr. Blunt could say a word, the crown of the hat was on his head, and he was out of the store and away.

And when he returned with Straw Hat the baby was sitting in the lap of the good natured colored woman who kept the store clean, as happy as any baby could be who had just eaten four sugar cakes and a stick of candy.

And Dusty E. Road proved himself to be, as he himself said he would be, the very boy wanted in that establishment.

THE HIEROGLYPHICS OF LOVE

BY AMANDA MATHEWS

The mother of Teodota sat in the doorway with a bowl of meat in her lap. Her greasy black dress wrinkled latitudinally about her shapeless figure. Her countenance was smooth, blank, and oily. As she cut the meat into bits for the tamales, an impotent dribble of monologue flowed from her flabby, pendulous lips. While awake, talking was a function as natural and continuous as respiration or digestion, and was interrupted only when her present husband exerted himself to beat or kick her into a brief interval of sniffling repression. On this particular afternoon Señor Garcia was not interested in damming the sluggish but endless current of his wife’s conversation, for he lay in drunken sleep on a filthy blanket in a corner of the rough board pen, a Mexican Caliban, swart, lowbrowed, bestial.

Teodota knelt behind the metate grinding corn to be mixed with chile in the pungent tamales. She had dragged the clumsy stone implement to a position where she could see that her stepfather still slept, notwithstanding his frightful inarticulate gulps and growls. A thin, flat-chested slip of a girl was Teodota, with great, piteous brown eyes, high cheek bones, small, pointed chin, and a complexion of tan satin. She was not beautiful; rather was she an intaglio of beauty with hollows where there should have been roundness. Her untidy black braids had been slept on many times since they had known a comb; the scant, tattered calico gown fell away from the upturned leathery soles of her bare feet. She guided the heavy stone roller with languid, perfunctory movements, while some clockwork in her brain prompted the periodical “Si, madre,” that fully satisfied her mother’s conversational requirements.

The real Teodota was back in Old Mexico. Certainly she was not driven thither by any lack of familiar environment in the Mexican quarter of Los Angeles. Nor would it seem necessary for Teodota to keep tryst in Mexico with a lover who had not preceded her to the United States, but they had not found each other yet and she could meet her Pablo only at the plaza fountain in Texcoco.

Suddenly into the dream, but not of it, a white folded paper fluttered through the open window and lay on the floor beside the metate. The girl examined it curiously.

“What is it, daughter?” inquired the elder woman.

“I do not know, mother. It looks like drawing; I am sure it isn’t writing.”

“I can use it to light my cigarette.”

“No, mamacita, I want it.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

The girl hid the paper where billows of a not overclean chemise escaped at long gaps between buttons, and returned to her labor, but the apparently trifling incident had taken a certain hold on her listless, stunted intelligence. Recklessly, she pushed a handful of corn off the end of the metate and edged about on her knees as if to pick it up, in order to study the document with her back to her mother. The unlettered brain, not accustomed to flat symbols for the appearance of things, was slow to find any significance in the lines. Very gradually did she achieve recognition of a railway train and the human figures, male and female.

As her stepfather pulled himself into a sitting posture she thrust the paper back into her bosom, trembling lest he had seen it, and still more lest he beat her for the unground corn.

“_Caramba!_” he growled. “May the roof fall upon the Labor Union.”

Mother and daughter exchanged glances of relief that, so far, the object of his wrath was remote and intangible.

“They told me in Mexico,” he continued, “of a fine thing here in America called the Labor Union that pays a man when he does not work, that throws stones at him if he is such a fool as to desire work, and calls him—calls him—a pest overtake their speech that is hard as rocks in the mouth—”

“Scabe, _padre_,” supplied Teodota, timidly.

“I come here with my innocent family. I seek out this Labor Union and say, ‘Here am I, Juan Garcia, who is no—no—’”

“Scabe, _padre_,” ventured the girl again.

“But hates work like the very devil. Do they embrace me? Do they put money in my hand? Ah-h-h!”

His memory of the rest of that painful interview, when a muscular labor leader chose to consider that he was being trifled with, vented itself in a shrill howl of rage.

Teodota caught up a brown earthen pitcher, and slipping out as though to bring water from the hydrant, hid herself behind a scrubby red geranium in the angle between the last tenement and the high board fence. At first she crouched in wretched fear of being dragged forth to receive a beating, or witness one bestowed upon her mother, but the minutes slipped by without pursuit.

It was not because she needed to exercise her reposeful wits during this period of hiding that she fell to studying the paper again, but rather on account of a pleasant stir in some rudimentary faculty that under happier circumstances might have been imagination. Man, boy, woman, train, mules, she identified with growing ease and satisfaction. For her, it was a notable mental achievement when she perceived relations among the members of the groups of objects.

That man was kissing the hand of the maiden with a water-jar on her shoulder. Even so had Pablo kissed her hand under the _portales_ that last morning, and when she inquired saucily if she were his grandmother, he snatched her to him and kissed both cheeks and called her _queridita_. In the next square the same girl was being flogged. Even so had she been used by her stepfather, who wished her to have no lover, but to continue making tamales for his support. Her beloved had left for the United States in just such a train.

This was a communication from Pablo! That supreme illumination in her dim intellect was a blessed miracle of love. She kissed the picture-letter and rocked back and forth, hugging it, while her heart nearly leaped out of her joy. Then she fell to studying it anew. The square showing forth a man driving a team of mules hitched to a scraper was beyond her comprehension, as she was unfamiliar with grading camps.

At the bottom of the sheet the boy with the shirt-waist and simulated fur cap was receiving a letter, running with it, and in the last square, delivering it to the maiden. Dear Pablo evidently believed that this boy was the messenger between them, whereas it must have been the angels or the saints, for had she not seen the boy looking as innocent and indifferent as you please?

When Teodota returned to the squalid room her stepfather had a more immediate grievance.

“You impudent, lazy hussy! You _sin verguenza_! I’ll teach you to leave your work and gad about the court!”

“If you touch me again,” blazed the girl, “you’d better keep awake. I’ll kill you if I ever catch you asleep!”

A rabbit at bay is at least a surprise, and the brute’s jaw dropped, the upraised arm fell back, and cursing and blustering, he strolled forth into the court. With a champion hovering near, there had suddenly come to the girl the power to hate bravely. Heretofore she had feared her stepfather as the savage who dares not hate the evil powers moving in the darkness lest they perceive his hatred and smite him afresh.

“Daughter! daughter!” wailed the frightened mother, “that was not a respectful manner to address a parent. When I was a girl it was the custom—”

“_Si, madre_,” responded Teodota, patiently, as she indited her answer to her lover with a burnt match on a scrap of wrapping paper. Roughly, but eloquently, she sketched two little imploring hands, and flung the epistle from the window with childlike confidence that whatever powers had brought Pablo’s letter would convey her reply.

It was a transformed Teodota that stood just out of the heavy wooden gates of the court the next morning, apparently loitering in idle contemplation of the street, where Latin infants disported themselves on the sidewalks, and soft Spanish speech was heard in every doorway, but in reality her whole body was charged with excitement and impatience. Personal neatness in a board pen devoted chiefly to the manufacture of tamales could not be expected to attain any high standard, but her appearance this morning bore eloquent testimony to the civilizing power of love. Her abundant black hair, moist and glossy, rippled on her shoulders, with a red geranium glowing in its shadows. The billows of chemise between the distant buttons were snowy white, the worst rents in the tattered pink gown had been roughly mended, and even the blue _rebozo_ lying across her shoulders had taken on a faded purity.

As though to set the seal of heavenly approval on such cleanliness, another communication from Pablo was found pinned to the _rebozo_ when she drew it in from the window where it had swung to dry. That the small boy was not in sight was ample proof that it had come by supernatural agency.

This last letter said more eloquently than mere words could have done: “I await thee at the tunnel.” Yet with seeming nonchalance, Teodota watched the squat, receding figure of her stepfather abroad on the only tasks compatible with his dignity and tastes—the delivery of the tamales to a dealer down the street, and the collection of the revenue therefrom. The very instant, however, that he disappeared into a doorway, she was off in the opposite direction, wrapping her _rebozo_ about her head as she went, and giving the end a final fling over her shoulder.

At the Mexican end of the tunnel, just beyond the Chinese laundry, but before one enters the cavernous chill and shadow, stands an unroofed adobe[8] hovel close to the highway. Teodota, hurrying by this ruin, thrilled from head to foot to hear her name.

“Pablo!” she gasped. Her soul rode the wave of joy to its crest; then dropped back into the trough of despair. “I took you for _gente decente_! How fine you are! How elegant! A grand señor!”

The tall, handsome Aztec looked down complacently at his black suit and the ends of his red tie, not displeased at the impression he made.

“Didst think, _queridita_,” he laughed, kissing her cheeks as he had done under the _portales_, “that here in America I would be wearing white cotton trousers and leather sandals? No, indeed! This is another day.”

“But I, Señor—”

“Call me not ‘Señor,’ but Pablo and thy sweetheart,” he cried, swinging her to the top of a crumbling wall, where she was obliged to cling to him most deliciously.

“You will be ashamed of me.”

“Nay, little one, we will soon mend thy distress. I know of a store not far from here with a sign—I cannot speak the strange word, but it looks thus.” With a pencil he scrawled on a bit of plaster still clinging to the adobe: RUMMAGE SALE.

“This is a strange country, Teodota. At home it is the poor who sell their clothes—mostly in the pawn-shops, though my uncle had six serapes bought off his back by gringo tourists. Here, it is the aristocrats who sell their garments to the poor, and very cheap, though, of course, one offers the half. Poor rich, to lose their pretty clothes, but I suppose the rents are high where they live, and they must have plenty to eat, being so accustomed. I can buy thee silk and velvet and thou shalt be a grand señora, as I am a grand señor.”

“Dear Pablo, you are as good as the blessed saints who brought me your letters.”

“It was a little boy, Teodota, whose father works in the same camp.”

“He seemed not to be concerned in the matter, and I was sure it was the saints. I must go back now or my stepfather will beat me.”

“Back, little one? Never! Come with me instead. The beast shall never beat thee again.”

“But the tamales?”

“I like tamales. You shall make them for me.”

“What would my poor mother say?”

“We can let her know later, and she will be glad to have thee free from that _cochino_. Listen, _lindita_: Beyond this tunnel is a big red house that they say is the National Palace of Los Angeles, and here one must get a permit to marry, though the priest really does the work. Let us seek the red house.”

“Oh, Pablo! Now?”

“Yes, _querida_.”

Hand in hand, the lovers left the adobe, and the somber echoing tunnel, with the electric wires seen like a spider’s web across its farther end, was to them an underground passage to Paradise.

—Copyright, and used by kind consent of the author.

Note.—Spanish words are pronounced according to the continental pronunciation, and each vowel is given a syllable. “Si Ma-dre,” pronounced See Ma´dray, yes, mother. “Ma-ma-ci-ta,” pronounced Ma-ma-cee-tah, little mother. “Sin Ver-gu-en-za,” pronounced Seen Vehr-goo-ain´tha, shameless. “Que-ri-di-ta,” pronounced Kay-ree-dee´tah, little love. “Por-ta-les,” pronounced Por-tah´lays, covered sidewalks. “Gente decente,” pronounced Hen´tay day-then´tay, the aristocracy. “Coch-i-no,” pronounced Co-chee´no, pig. “Lin-di-ta,” pronounced Leen-dee´ta, pretty. “Que-ri-da,” pronounced Kay-ree´da, beloved.

THE INTERVENTION OF PETER

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

No one knows just what statement it was of Harrison Randolph’s that Bob Lee doubted. The annals of these two Virginia families have not told us that. But these are the facts:

It was at the home of the Fairfaxes that a few of the sons of the old Dominion were giving a dinner, and a brave dinner it was. The courses had come and gone, and over their cigars they had waxed more than merry. In those days men drank deep, and these men were young, full of the warm blood of the South and the joy of living. What wonder then that the liquor that had been mellowing in the Fairfax cellars since the boyhood of their revolutionary ancestor should have its effect upon them?

It is true that it was only a slight thing which Bob Lee affected to disbelieve, and that his tone was jocosely bantering rather than impertinent. But sometimes Virginia heads are not less hot than Virginia hearts. The two young men belonged to families that had intermarried. They rode together, hunted together and were friends as far as two men could be who had read the message of love in the dark eyes of the same woman. So perhaps there was some thought of the long-contested hand of Miss Sallie Ford in Harrison Randolph’s mind when he chose to believe that his honor had been assailed.

His dignity was admirable. There was no scene to speak of. It was all very genteel.

“Mr. Lee,” he said, “had chosen to doubt his word, which to a gentleman was a final insult. But he felt sure that Mr. Lee would not refuse to accord him a gentleman’s satisfaction.” And the other’s face had waxed warm and red and his voice cold as he replied: “I shall be most happy to give you the satisfaction you demand.”

Here friends interposed and attempted to pacify the two. But without avail.

Each of the young men nodded to a friend and rose to depart. The joyous dinner-party bade fair to end with much more serious business.

* * * * *

“You shall hear from me very shortly,” said Randolph, as he strode to the door.

“I shall await your pleasure with impatience, sir, and give you such a reply as even you cannot disdain.”

Peter, the personal attendant of Harrison Randolph, stood at the door as his master passed out, and went on before him to hold his stirrup. The young master and his friend and cousin, Dale, started off briskly and in silence, while Pete, with wide eyes and disturbed face, followed on behind. Just as they were turning into the avenue of elms that led to their own house, Randolph wheeled his horse and came riding back to his servant.

“Pete,” said he sternly, “what do you know?”

“Nuffin’, Mas’ Ha’ison, nuffin’ ’t all. I do’ know nuffin’.”

“I don’t believe you.” The young master’s eyes were shining through the dusk. “You’re always slipping around spying on me.”

“Now, dah you goes, Mas’ Randolph. I ain’t done a thing, and you got to ’mence pickin’ on me—”

“I just want you to remember that my business is mine.”

“Well, I knows dat.”

“And if you do know anything, it will be well for you to begin forgetting it right now. Take Bess around and see her attended to. Leave Dale’s horse here, and—I won’t want you any more to-night.”

Pete turned away with an injured expression on his dark face. “Bess,” he said to the spirited black mare, as he led her toward the stables, “you jes’ better t’ank yo’ Makah dat you ain’t no human bein’, ’ca’se human bein’s is cur’ous articles. Now you’s a horse, ain’t you? And dey say you ain’t got no soul, but you got sense, Bess, you got sense. You’s a high steppah, too, but you don’ go to work an’ try to brek yo’ naik de fus’ chanst you git. Bess, I ’spect you ’ca’se you got jedgment, an’ you don’ have to have a black man runnin’ aftah you all de time plannin’ his head off jes’ to keep you out o’ trouble. Some folks dat’s human bein’s does. Yet an’ still, Bess, you ain’t nuffin’ but a dumb beas’, so dey says. Now, what I gwine to do? Co’se dey wants to fight. But whah an’ when an’ how I gwine to stop hit? Doan want me to wait on him to-night, huh! No, dey want to mek dey plans an’ do’ want me ’roun’ to hyeah, dat’s what’s de mattah. Well, I lay I’ll hyeah somep’n’ anyhow.”

Peter hurried through his work and took himself up to the big house and straight to his master’s room. He heard voices within, but though he took many liberties with his owner, eavesdropping was not one of them. It proved too dangerous. So, though he lingered on the mat, it was not for long, and he unceremoniously pushed the door open and walked in. With a great show of haste, he made for his master’s wardrobe and began busily searching among the articles therein. Harrison Randolph and his cousin were in the room, and their conversation, which had been animated, suddenly ceased when Peter entered.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want you any more to-night.”

“I’s a-lookin’ fu’ dem striped pants o’ yo’n. I want to tek ’m out an’ bresh ’em; dey’s pintly a livin’ sight.”

“You get out o’ here.”

“But, Mas’ Ha’ison, now—now—look-a-hyeah—”

“Get out, I tell you.”

Pete shuffled from the room, mumbling as he went: “Dah now, dah now! driv’ out lak’ a dog! How’s I gwine to fin’ out anyt’ing dis way? It do ’pear lak Mas’ Ha’ison do try to give me all de trouble he know how. Now he plannin’ and prijickin’ wif dat cousin Dale an’ one jes’ ez scattah-brained ez de othah. Well, I ’low I got to beat dis time somehow er ruther.”

He was still lingering hopeless and worried about the house when he saw young Dale Randolph come out, mount his horse, and ride away. After a while his young master also came out and walked up and down in the soft evening air. The rest of the family were seated about on the broad piazza.

“I wonder what is the matter with Harrison to-night,” said the young man’s father, “he seems so preoccupied.”

“Thinking of Sallie Ford, I reckon,” some one replied; and the remark passed with a laugh. Pete was near enough to catch this, but he did not stop to set them right in their conjectures. He slipped into the house.

It was less than two hours after this when Dale Randolph returned and went immediately to his cousin’s room, where Harrison followed him.

“Well?” said the latter, as soon as the door closed behind them.

“It’s all arranged, and he’s anxious to hurry it through for fear some one may interfere. Pistols, and to-morrow morning at daybreak.”

“And the place?”

“The little stretch of woods that borders Ford’s Creek. I say, Harrison, it isn’t too late to stop this thing yet. It’s a shame for you two fellows to fight. You’re both too decent to be killed yet.”

“He insulted me.”

“Without intention, every one believes.”

“Then let him apologize.”

“As well ask the devil to take Communion.”

“We’ll fight then.”

“All right. If you must fight you must. But you’d better go to bed, for you’ll need a strong arm and a steady hand to-morrow.”

“I’m going to write a couple of letters first,” he said; “then I shall lie down for an hour or so. And, by the way, Dale, if I—if it happens to be me to-morrow, you take Pete; he’s a good fellow.”

The cousins clasped hands in silence and passed out. As the door closed behind them a dusky form rolled out from under the bed and the disreputable, eavesdropping, backsliding Peter stood up and rubbed a sleeve across his eyes.

“It ain’t me dat’s gwine to be give to nobody else. I hates to do it; but dey ain’t no othah way. Mas’ Ha’ison cain’t be spaihed.” He glided out mysteriously, some plan of salvation working in his black head.

* * * * *

Just before daybreak next morning three stealthy figures crept out and made their way toward Ford’s Creek. One skulked behind the other two, dogging their steps and taking advantage of the darkness to keep very near to them. At the grim trysting-place they halted and were soon joined by other stealthy figures, and together they sat down to wait for the daylight. The seconds conferred for a few minutes. The ground was paced off, and a few, low-pitched orders prepared the young men for business.

“I will count three, gentlemen,” said Lieutenant Custis. “At three, you are to fire.”

At last daylight came, gray and timid at first, and then red and bold as the sun came clearly up. The pistols were examined and the men placed face to face.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

But evidently Harrison Randolph was not. He was paying no attention to the seconds. His eyes were fixed on an object behind his opponent’s back. His attitude relaxed and his mouth began to twitch. Then he burst into a peal of laughter.

“Pete,” he roared, “drop that and come out from there!” and away he went into another convulsion of mirth. The others turned just in time to see Pete cease his frantic grimaces of secrecy at his master, and sheepishly lower an ancient fowling-piece which he had had leveled at Bob Lee.

“What were you going to do with that gun leveled at me?” asked Lee, his own face twitching.

“I was gwine to fiah jes’ befo’ dey said free. I wa’n’t gwine to kill you, Mas’ Bob. I was on’y gwine to lame you.”

Another peal of laughter from the whole crowd followed this condescending statement.

“You unconscionable scoundrel, you! If I was your master, I’d give you a hundred lashes.”

“Pete,” said his master, “don’t you know that it is dishonorable to shoot a man from behind? You see you haven’t in you the making of a gentleman.”

“I do’ know nuffin’ ’bout mekin’ a gent’man, but I does know how to save one dat’s already made.”

The prime object of the meeting had been entirely forgotten. They gathered around Pete and examined the weapon.

“Gentlemen,” said Randolph, “we have been saved by a miracle. This old gun, as well as I can remember and count, has been loaded for the past twenty-five years, and if Pete had tried to fire it, it would have torn up all this part of the country.”

Then the eyes of the two combatants met. There was something irresistibly funny in the whole situation, and they found themselves roaring again. Then, with one impulse, they shook hands without a word.

And Pete led the way home, the willing butt of a volume of good-natured abuse.—From “Folks from Dixie,” copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Company_, New York, and used by arrangement.