sL ft fJr •■ ■"' & vC iff x>. if I nit if ■ >J»^ ssllr^ ff^S Sal mi R« UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 00022229571 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://archive.org/details/modernstoriestapp THE CHILDREN'S HOUR IN TEN VOLUMES ILLUSTRATED VOLUME X / lots A / may never hear of the United States again (page 454) Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lower,, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, that is known as the Children's Hour. COPYRIGHT 1907 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED NOTE ALL rights in stories in this volume are reserved by the holders of the copyright. The publishers and others named in the subjoined list are the proprietors, either in their own right or as agents for the authors, of the stories taken from the works enumerated, of which the ownership is hereby acknowledged. The editor takes this opportunity to thank both authors and publishers for the ready generosity with which they have allowed her to include these stories in "The Children's Hour." "Recollections of Auton House," by Augustus Hoppin; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "Timothy's Quest," by Kate Douglas Wiggin; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "Dream Children," by Horace E. Scudder; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "The Story of a Bad Boy," by Thomas Bailey Aldrich; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "Under the Deodars," by Rudyard Kipling; published by Doubleday Page & Company. "Twice -Told Tales," by Nathaniel Hawthorne; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "A White Heron and Other Stories," by Sarah Orne Jewett; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "Little Women," by Louisa M. Alcott; published by Little, Brown & Company. NOTE "The Peterkin Papers," by Lucretia P. Hale; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "In Our Convent Days," by Agnes Repplier; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "The Basket Woman," by Mary Austin; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. "The Man Without a Country," by Edward Everett Hale; published by Little, Brown & Company. CONTENTS TO THE CHILDREN ad MODERN STORIES The King of the Golden River .... John Buskin 3 At Auton House Augustus Hoppin 36 Two Little Runaways Kate Douglas Wiggin 44 Hare and Hounds at Rugby Thomas Hughes 57 The Prince's Visit Horace E. Scudder 68 The Snow Fort on Slatter's Hill Thomas Bailey Aldrich 75 The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner . . . Charles Dickens 85 Jackanapes Juliana Horatia Ewing 96 A Dog of Flanders . . . Louise de la Bamee (" Ouida ") 136 Rd? Van Winkle Washington Irving 186 Alice and the Two Queens Charles Lutwidge Dodgson {''Lewis Carroll") 208 The Queen of the Pirate Isle . . ... . Bret Harte 217 Wee Willie Wlnkie Budyard Kipling 242 The Archery Contest Sir Walter Scott 257 A Race for Life James Fenimore Cooper 265 The Great Stone Face Nathaniel Hawthorne 271 Farmer Finch Sarah Orne Jewett 299 A Descent into the Maelstrom . . Edgar Allan Poe 335 Jo's First Story Louisa M. Alcott 359 The Peterkins are obliged to Move Lucretia P. Hale 373 Miss Beulah's Bonnet Bose Terry Cooke 383 The Archbishop's Visit Agnes Bepplier 411 Mahala Joe Mary Austin 419 The Besieged Castle Sir Walter Scott 442 The Man without a Country . . Edward Everett Hale 450 INDEX OF AUTHORS 489 INDEX OF TITLES 503 ILLUSTRATIONS I WISH I MAY NEVER HEAR OF THE UNITED STATES AGAIN (p. 454) F. T. Merrill Colored Frontispiece The Knocker seemed to be in a Hurry . Richard Doyle 6 She was Safe on her Beloved Timothy's Shoulder Oliver Herford 48 The Rest retired confused and blinded by our Well- directed Fere A. B. Frost 80 " Is THERE A PECULIAR FLAVOR IN WHAT YOU SPRINKLE FROM your torch?" John Leech 88 "Leave you? To save my skin? No, Tony, not to save my soul" Randolph Caldecott 128 Nello and Patrasche did the Work so Well and so Joy- fully By permission of J. B. Lippincott Company . E. H. Garrett 146 Nello drew their Lekeness By permission of J. B. Lippincott Company . E. H. Garrett 156 He assisted at thelr Sports F. O. C. Barley 188 The Twenty Years had been to him as One Night F. O. C. Barley 206 The Great Stone Face From a photograph 272 A Choice Supper from the Lady from Philadelphia Augustus Hoppin 382 Drew them in as best I could with my Pencil By permission of Little, Brown $* Co. . . . F.T.Merrill 482 TO THE CHILDREN THERE are two secrets about stories that not every one knows. The first is that in one way or an- other every book worth reading is true. A really good " made-up story " is just as true as an arithmetic, only in another fashion. The incidents may be fiction, but the meaning must be truth itself. " The Great Stone Face " (page 271), for instance, is a true story. Of course it is not at all probable that any boy ever gazed at the Old Man of the Mountain until he began to look like it; but it is true that a boy is almost sure to become like the persons whom he admires. That is the meaning, the real heart of the story. In "A Dog of Flanders" (page 136), it is not probable that precisely the events narrated ever took place; but it is true that a dog is always grateful for kindness and is happy if he can re- turn it. In the same way, Miss Jewett's " Farmer Finch " (page 299) is true ; for a brave girl like Polly would not sit idle because she could not have just the work in the world that she had expected, but would "Do ye nexte thynge," as the old motto puts it. Again, there are sto- ries whose incidents not only never occurred but could not possibly occur, such as Ruskin's "King of the Golden River" (page 3) and Poe's "Descent into the Maelstrom" (page 335). No wicked older brothers ever turned into black stones, and no fisherman was ever swept down into a whirlpool which never existed. xi TO THE CHILDREN You have to do a little more thinking to find the mean- ing of these stories, but the meaning is there, and to discover it is one of the things that boys and girls can do as well as grown folk. The second secret is that the real value of a story is the way it makes you feel. After you have read Dr. Hale's " A Man Without a Country " (page 450), for in- stance, you are almost sure to feel that it is a glorious thing not to have to stand alone in the world, but to belong to your own country, and that you are bound to do all you can to help your fatherland in peace as well as in war. So in " Jackanapes " (page 96), although the young hero is not made at once commander-in-chief of the British army and although he has no more ad- ventures than would come in the way of almost any sol- dier, yet you close the book feeling that it is a splendid thing to be as brave and generous as he was. In " The Peterkins are Obliged to Move " (page 373), there is good clean fun; and after you have read it, imitation fun, such as silly practical jokes and stories that are just a little coarse, seems rather stupid and vulgar. You know as well as the oldest and wisest persons on earth that the feelings which come from reading such books as these are good to have. This preface is not exactly a preface; it is, rather, the text for a sermon. The sermon you can think out for yourselves. MODERN STORIES THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER By John Ruskin I IN a secluded and mountainous part of Styria there was, in old time, a valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains, rising into peaks which were always covered with snow, and from which a num- ber of torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westward, over the face of a crag so high that, when the sun had set to everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was therefore called by the people of the neighborhood the Golden River. It was strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself. They all descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away through broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the snowy hills, and rested so softly in the circular hollow, that, in time of drought and heat, when all the country round was burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley ; and its crops were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley. 3 MODERN STORIES The whole of this little valley belonged to three bro- thers, called Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers, were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small, dull eyes, which were always half shut, so that you could n't see into them, and always fancied they saw very far into you. They lived by farming the Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were. They killed everything that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds, because they pecked the fruit; and killed the hedge- hogs, lest they should suck the cows; they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen; and smothered the cicadas, which used to sing all summer in the lime-trees. They worked their servants without any wages, till they would not work any more, and then quarreled with them, and turned them out of doors without paying them. It would have been very odd if, with such a farm, and such a system of farming, they had n't got very rich; and very rich they did get. They generally contrived to keep their corn by them till it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity; they never went to mass; grumbled perpetually at paying tithes ; and were, in a word, of so cruel and grinding a temper as to receive from all those with whom they had any dealings, the nickname of the "Black Brothers." The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely op- posed, in both appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined or desired. He was not 4 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind in tem- per to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree particularly well with his brothers, or, rather, they did not agree with him. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit, when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, the floors, and sometimes the plates, occa- sionally getting what was left on them, by way of en- couragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows, by way of education. Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet summer, and everything went wrong in the country round. The hay had hardly been got in, when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the sea by an inundation; the vines were cut to pieces with the hail; the corn was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else, so it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy corn at the farm, and went away pouring male- dictions on the Black Brothers. They asked what they liked, and got it, except from the poor people, who could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their very door, without the slightest regard or notice. It was drawing toward winter, and very cold weather, when one day the two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in, and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was 5 MODERN STORIES raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or comfortable looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown. "What a pity," thought Gluck, "my brothers never ask anybody to dinner ! I 'm sure, when they Ve got such a nice piece of mutton as this, and nobody else has got so much as a piece of dry bread, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them." Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house-door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up, — more like a puff than a knock. "It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door." No, it was n't the wind ; there it came again very hard, and — what was particularly astounding — the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was. It was the most extraordinary looking little gentle- man he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored ; his cheeks were very round and very red, and might have warranted a supposition that he had been blowing a refractory fire for the last eight-and-forty hours ; his eyes twinkled merrily through long silky eyelashes, his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in height, and wore a conical-pointed cap of nearly the same alti- tude, decorated with a black feather some three feet long. His doublet was prolonged behind into something 6 k& TO BE IN A HURRY AND NOT TO BE AFRAID OF THE CONSEQUENCES &&G&: 4* ^m THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER resembling a violent exaggeration of what is now termed a "swallow-tail," but was much obscured by the swell- ing folds of an enormous black, glossy looking cloak which must have been very much too long in calm wea- ther, as the wind, whistling round the old house, carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to about four times his own length. Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular ap- pearance of his visitor that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the old gentleman, having per- formed another and a more energetic concerto on the knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed. "Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door; I'm wet, let me in." To do the little gentleman justice, he was wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten pup- py's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running into his waist- coat-pockets, and out again like a mill-stream. "I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck; "I'm very sorry, but I really can't." "Can't what?" said the old gentleman. "I can't let you in, sir, — I can't indeed; my bro- thers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?" " Want ? " said the old gentleman, petulantly, " I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire there blaz- ing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody 7 MODERN STORIES to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm my- self." Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleas- antly cold, and when he turned, and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing. "He does look very wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to the door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, through the house came a gust of wind that made the old chimneys totter. "That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them." "Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. " I can't let you stay till they come ; they 'd be the death of me." " Dear me," said the old gentleman, " I 'm very sorry to hear that. How long may I stay ? " "Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very brown." Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a great deal too high for the roof. "You'll soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did not dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and be- 8 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER gan to look very black and uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter. " I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watch- ing the water spreading in long quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter of an hour; " may n't I take your cloak ? " "No, thank you," said the old gentleman. " Your cap, sir ? " "I'm all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly. "But — sir — I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitat- ingly; "but — really, sir — you're putting the fire out" "It'll take longer to do the mutton, then," replied his visitor, dryly. Gluck was very puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string meditatively for another five minutes. "That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentle- man, at length. " Can't you give me a little bit ? " "Impossible, sir," said Gluck. "I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; " I 've had nothing to eat yesterday, nor to-day. They surely could n't miss a bit from the knuckle ! " He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart. "They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that, but not a bit more." "That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again. Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. 9 MODERN STORIES " I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconve- niently warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at exactitude, and ran to open the door. "What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck 's face. "Ay! what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen. "Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door. "Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing, with the utmost possible velocity. " Who 's that ? " said Schwartz, catching up a rolling- pin, and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown. "I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror. "How did he get in?" roared Schwartz. "My dear brother," said Gluck deprecatingly, "he was so very wet!" The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at the instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a 10 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER high wind, and fell into the corner at the further end of the room. "Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him. " What 's your business ? " snarled Hans. " I 'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the win- dow, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour." "Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. " We Ve quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying-house." "It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs." They hung down to his shoulders, as I told you before. " Ay ! " said Hans, " there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!" "I'm very, very hungry, sir; could n't you spare me a bit of bread before I go?" "Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you ? " " Why don't you sell your feather ? " said Hans, sneer- ingly. "Out with you." "A little bit," said the old gentleman. "Be off!" said Schwartz. "Pray, gentlemen." "Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than away he went after the rolling- pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the cor- ner on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and 11 MODERN STORIES ran at the old gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay all three. Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him; clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an additional twist to his cockscrew mus- taches, and replied with perfect coolness, " Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock to- night I'll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you." "If ever I catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming, half frightened, out of the corner, — but be- fore he could finish his sentence, the old gentleman had shut the house-door behind him with a great bang, and past the window, at the same instant, drove a wreath of ragged cloud, that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner of shapes ; turning over and over in the air; and melting away at last in a gush of rain. "A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again — Bless me, why the mutton's been cut!" "You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck. 12 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER "Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the gravy. It '11 be long before I pro- mise you such a thing again. Leave the room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the coal-cellar till I call you." Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The bro- thers ate as much mutton as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get very drunk after dinner. Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain without intermission. The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the shutters, and double-bar the door, before they went to bed. They usually slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence that shook the house from top to bottom. "What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed. "Only I," said the little gentleman. The two brothers sat up on their bolster, and stared into the darkness. The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam, which found its way through a hole in the shutter, they could see, in the midst of it, an enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and down like a cork, on which, as on a most luxu- rious cushion, reclined the little old gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the roof was off. " Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor, iron- ically. "I'm afraid your beds are dampish; perhaps 13 MODERN STORIES you had better go to your brother's room ; I 've left the ceiling on there." They required ho second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's room, wet through, and in an agony of terror. "You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman called after them. "Remember, the last visit." "Pray Heaven it may be!" said Schwartz, shudder- ing. And the foam globe disappeared. Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's little window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and desolation. The inun- dation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and left, in their stead, a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers crept, shivering and horror-struck, into the kitchen. The water had gutted the whole first floor: corn, money, almost every movable thing had been swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters, were engraved the words: Southwest Wind, Esquire. II Southwest Wind, Esquire, was as good as his word. After the momentous visit above related, he entered the Treasure Valley no more; and, what was worse, he had so much influence with his relations, the West Winds in general, and used it so effectually, that they all adopted a similar line of conduct. So no rain fell 14 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER in the valley from one year's end to another. Though everything remained green and flourishing in the plains below, the inheritance of the Three Brothers was a desert. What had once been the richest soil in the king- dom became a shifting heap of red sand; and the bro- thers, unable longer to contend with the adverse skies, abandoned their valueless patrimony in despair, to seek some means of gaining a livelihood among the cities and people, of the plains. All their money was gone, and they had nothing left but some curious, old- fashioned pieces of gold plate, the last remnants of their ill-gotten wealth. "Suppose we turn goldsmiths," said Schwartz to Hans, as they entered the large city. "It is a good knave's trade: we can put a great deal of copper into the gold, without any one's finding it out." The thought was agreed to be a very good one; they hired a furnace, and turned goldsmiths. But two slight circumstances affected their trade : the first, that people did not approve of the coppered gold; the second, that the two elder brothers, whenever they had sold any- thing, used to leave little Gluck to mind the furnace, and go and drink out the money in the ale-house next door. So they melted all their gold, without making money enough to buy more, and were at last reduced to one large drinking-mug, which an uncle of his had given to little Gluck, and which he was very fond of, and would not have parted with for the world; though he never drank anything out of it but milk and water. The mug was a very odd mug to look at. The handle was formed of two wreaths of flowing golden hair, so 15 MODERN STORIES finely spun that it looked more like silk than like metal, and these wreaths descended into, and mixed with, a beard and whiskers, of the same exquisite workman- ship, which surrounded and decorated a very fierce little face, of the reddest gold imaginable, right in the front of the mug, with a pair of eyes in it which seemed to command its whole circumference. It was impossible to drink out of the mug without being subjected to an intense gaze out of the side of these eyes ; and Schwartz positively averred that once, after emptying it full of Rhenish seventeen times, he had seen them wink ! When it came to the mug's turn to be made into spoons, it half broke poor little Gluck's heart; but the brothers only laughed at him, tossed the mug into the melting-pot, and staggered out to the ale-house; leaving him, as Usual, to pour the gold into bars, when it was all ready. When they were gone, Gluck took a farewell look at his old friend in the melting-pot. The flowing hair was all gone; nothing remained but the red nose, and the sparkling eyes, which looked more malicious than ever. "And no wonder," thought Gluck, "after being treated in that way." He sauntered disconsolately to the win- dow, and sat himself down to catch the fresh evening air, and escape the hot breath of the furnace. Now this window commanded a direct view of the range of moun- tains which, as I told you before, overhung the Treasure Valley, and more especially of the peak from which fell the Golden River. It was just at the close of the day, and, when Gluck sat down at the window, he saw the rocks of the mountain-tops all crimson and purple with the sunset; and there were bright tongues of fiery cloud 16 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER burning and quivering about them; and the river, brighter than all, fell, in a waving column of pure gold, from precipice to precipice, with the double arch of a broad purple rainbow stretched across it, flushing and fading alternately in the wreaths of spray. "Ah!" said Gluck aloud, after he had looked at it for a little while, " if that river were really all gold, what a nice thing it would be!" " No, it would n't, Gluck," said a clear, metallic voice, close at his ear. "Bless me, what's that?" exclaimed Gluck, jump- ing up. There was nobody there. He looked round the room, and under the table, and a great many times behind him, but there was certainly nobody there, and he sat down again at the window. This time he did n't speak, but he could n't help thinking again that it would be very convenient if the river were really all gold. "Not at all, my boy," said the same voice, louder than before. "Bless me!" said Gluck again, "what is that?" He looked again into all the corners and cupboards, and then began turning round and round, as fast as he could, in the middle of the room, thinking there was somebody behind him, when the same voice struck again on his ear. It was singing now very merrily, " Lala- lira-la," — no words, only a soft running effervescent melody, something like that of a kettle on the boil. Gluck looked out of the window. No, it was certainly in the house. Upstairs, and downstairs. No, it was cer- tainly in that very room, coming in quicker time and 17 MODERN STORIES clearer notes every moment, " Lala-lira-la." All at once it struck Gluck that it sounded louder near the furnace. He ran to the opening and looked in. Yes, he saw right; it seemed to be coming, not only out of the furnace, but out of the pot. He uncovered it, and ran back in a great fright, for the pot was certainly singing! He stood in the farthest corner of the room, with his hands up, and his mouth open, for a minute or two, when the singing stopped, and the voice became clear and pronunciative. "Hollo!" said the voice. Gluck made no answer. "Hollo, Gluck, my boy!" said the pot again. Gluck summoned all his energies, walked straight up to the crucible, drew it out of the furnace, and looked in. The gold was all melted, and its surface as smooth and polished as a river; but instead of its reflecting little Gluck's head, as he looked in, he saw meeting his glance, from beneath the gold, the red nose and the sharp eyes of his old friend of the mug, a thousand times redder and sharper than ever he had seen them in his life. "Come, Gluck, my boy," said the voice out of the pot again, "I'm all right; pour me out." But Gluck was too much astonished to do anything of the kind. "Pour me out, I say," said the voice rather gruffly. Still Gluck could n't move. "Will you pour me out?" said the voice passion- ately. "I'm too hot!" By a violent effort, Gluck recovered the use of his limbs, took hold of the crucible, and sloped it so as to 18 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER pour out the gold. But instead of a liquid stream, there came out, first, a pair of pretty little yellow legs, then some coat-tails, then a pair of arms stuck akimbo, and, finally, the well-known head of his friend the mug; all which articles, uniting as they rolled out, stood up energetically on the floor, in the shape of a little golden dwarf, about a foot and a half high. "That's right!" said the dwarf, stretching out first his legs, and then his arms, and then shaking his head up and down, and as far round as it would go, for five minutes, without stopping, — apparently with the view of ascertaining if he were quite correctly put together, while Gluck stood contemplating him in speechless amazement. He was dressed in a slashed doublet of spun gold, so fine in its texture that the prismatic colors gleamed over it, as if on a surface of mother-of-pearl; and over this brilliant doublet his hair and beard fell full half-way to the ground, in waving curls, so ex- quisitely delicate that Gluck could hardly tell where they ended; they seemed to melt into air. The fea- tures of the face, however, were by no means finished with the same delicacy; they were rather coarse, slightly inclining to coppery in complexion, and indicative, in expression, of a very pertinacious and intractable dis- position in their small proprietor. When the dwarf had finished his self-examination, he turned his small, sharp eyes full on Gluck, and stared at him deliberately for a minute or two. " No, it would n't, Gluck, my boy," said the little man. This was certainly rather an abrupt and unconnected mode of commencing conversation. It might indeed 19 MODERN STORIES be supposed to refer to the course of Gluck's thoughts, which had first produced the dwarf's observations out of the pot; but whatever it referred to, Gluck had no inclination to dispute the dictum. " Would n't it, sir ? " said Gluck, very mildly and submissively indeed. " No," said the dwarf conclusively. " No, it would n't." And with that, the dwarf pulled his cap hard over his brows, and took two turns of three feet long, up and down the room, lifting his legs very high, and setting them down very hard. This pause gave time for Gluck to collect his thoughts a little, and, seeing no great rea- son to view his diminutive visitor with dread, and feel- ing his curiosity overcome his amazement, he ventured on a question of peculiar delicacy. "Pray, sir," said Gluck, rather hesitatingly, "were you my mug?" On which the little man turned sharp round, walked straight up to Gluck, and drew himself up to his full height. "I," said the little man, "am the King of the Golden River." Whereupon he turned about again, and took two more turns, some, six feet long, in order to allow time for the consternation which this announce- ment produced in his auditor to evaporate. After which he again walked up to Gluck and stood still, as if ex- pecting some comment on his communication. Gluck determined to say something, at all events. " I hope your majesty is very well," said Gluck. "Listen!" said the little man, deigning no reply to this polite inquiry. " I am the king of what you mortals call the Golden River. The shape you saw me in was 20 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER owing to the malice of a stronger king, from whose en- chantments you have this instant freed me. What I have seen of you, and your conduct to your wicked brothers, renders me willing to serve you; therefore attend to what I tell you. Whoever shall climb to the top of that mountain from which you see the Golden River issue, and shall cast into the stream at its source three drops of holy water, for him, and for him only, the river shall turn to gold. But no one failing in his first can succeed in a second attempt; and if any one shall cast unholy water into the river, it will overwhelm him, and he will become a black stone." So saying, the King of the Golden River turned away, and deliber- ately walked into the centre of the hottest flame of the furnace. His figure became red, white, transparent, dazzling, — a blaze of intense light, — rose, trembled, and disappeared. The King of the Golden River had evaporated. "Oh!" cried poor Gluck, running to look up the chimney after him; "oh dear, dear, dear me! My mug! my mug! my mug!" Ill The King of the Golden River had hardly made his extraordinary exit before Hans and Schwartz came roaring into the house, very savagely drunk. The dis- covery of the total loss of their last piece of plate had the effect of sobering them just enough to enable them to stand over Gluck, beating him very steadily for a quarter of an hour; at the expiration of which period 21 MODERN STORIES they dropped into a couple of chairs, and requested to know what he had got to say for himself. Gluck told them his story, of which of course they did not believe a word. They beat him again, till their arms were tired, and staggered to bed. In the morning, however, the stead- iness with which he adhered to his story obtained him some degree of credence; the immediate consequence of which was that the two brothers, after wrangling a long time on the knotty question which of them should try his fortune first, drew their swords, and began fight- ing. The noise of the fray alarmed the neighbors, who, finding they could not pacify the combatants, sent for the constable. Hans, on hearing this, contrived to escape, and hid himself; but Schwartz was taken before the magis- trate, fined for breaking the peace, and having drunk out his last penny the evening before, was thrown into prison till he should pay. When Hans heard this, he was much delighted, and determined to set out immediately for the Golden River. How to get the holy water was the question. He went to the priest, but the priest could not give any holy water to so abandoned a character. So Hans went to vespers in the evening for the first time in his life, and, under pretense of crossing himself, stole a cupful, and returned home in triumph. Next morning he got up before the sun rose, put the holy water into a strong flask, and two bottles of wine and some meat in a basket, slung them over his back, took his alpine staff in his hand, and set off for the mountains. 22 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER On his way out of the town he had to pass the prison, and as he looked in at the windows, whom should he see but Schwartz himself peeping out of the bars, and looking very disconsolate. "Good morning, brother," said Hans; "have you any message for the King of the Golden River ? " Schwartz gnashed his teeth with rage, and shook the bars with all his strength; but Hans only laughed at him, and advising him to make himself comfortable till he came back again, shouldered his basket, shook the bottle of holy water in Schwartz's face till it frothed again, and marched off in the highest spirits in the world. It was, indeed, a morning that might have made any one happy, even with no Golden River to seek for. Level lines of dewy mist lay stretched along the val- ley, out of which rose the massy mountains, — their lower cliffs in pale gray shadow, hardly distinguishable from the floating vapor, but gradually ascending till they caught the sunlight, which ran in sharp touches of ruddy color along the angular crags, and pierced, in long level rays, through their fringes of spear-like pine. Far above shot up red splintered masses of castellated rock, jagged and shivered into myriads of fantastic forms, with here and there a streak of sunlit snow, traced down their chasms like a line of forked light- ning; and, far beyond, and far above all these, fainter than the morning cloud, but purer and changeless, slept, in the blue sky, the utmost peaks of the eternal snow. The Golden River, which sprang from one of the 23 MODERN STORIES lower and snowless elevations, was now nearly in shadow; all but the uppermost jets of spray, which rose like slow smoke above the undulating line of the cata- ract, and floated away in feeble wreaths upon the morn- ing wind. On this object, and on this alone, Hans's eyes and thoughts were fixed; forgetting the distance he had to traverse, he set off at an imprudent rate of walking, which greatly exhausted him before he had scaled the first range of the green and low hills. He was, more- over, surprised, on surmounting them, to find that a large glacier, of whose existence, notwithstanding his previous knowledge of the mountains, he had been absolutely ignorant, lay between him and the source of the Golden River. He entered on it with the bold- ness of a practised mountaineer; yet he thought he had never traversed so strange or so dangerous a glacier in his life. The ice was excessively slippery; and out of all its chasms came wild sounds of gushing water: not monotonous or low, but changeful and loud, rising oc- casionally into drifting passages of wild melody, then breaking off into short, melancholy tones, or sudden shrieks, resembling those of human voices in distress or pain. The ice was broken into thousands of confused shapes, but none, Hans thought, like the ordinary forms of splintered ice. There seemed a curious expression about all their outlines, — a perpetual resemblance to living features, distorted and scornful. Myriads of deceitful shadows and lurid lights played and floated about and through the pale blue pinnacles, dazzling and confusing the sight of the traveler; while his ears 24 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER grew dull and his head giddy with the constant gush and roar of the concealed waters. These painful cir- cumstances increased upon him as he advanced; the ice crashed and yawned into fresh chasms at his feet, tottering spires nodded around him, and fell thundering across his path; and though he had repeatedly faced these dangers on the most terrific glaciers, and in the wildest weather, it was with a new and oppressive feel- ing of panic-terror that he leaped the last chasm, and flung himself, exhausted and shuddering, on the firm turf of the mountain. He had been compelled to abandon his basket of food, which became a perilous incumbrance on the glacier, and had now no means of refreshing himself but by breaking off and eating some of the pieces of ice. This, however, relieved his thirst; an hour's repose recruited his hardy frame, and, with the indomitable spirit of avarice, he resumed his laborious journey. His way now lay straight up a ridge of bare, red rocks, without a blade of grass to ease the foot or a projecting angle to afford an inch of shade from the south sun. It was past noon, and the rays beat intensely upon the steep path, while the whole atmosphere was motionless, and penetrated with heat. Intense thirst was soon added to the bodily fatigue with which Hans was now afflicted ; glance after glance he cast on the flask of water which hung at his belt. "Three drops are enough," at last thought he; "I may, at least, cool my lips with it." He opened the flask, and was raising it to his lips, when his eye fell on an object lying on the rock beside him; he thought it moved. It was a small dog, appar- 25 MODERN STORIES ently in the last agony of death from thirst. Its tongue was out, its jaws dry, its limbs extended lifelessly, and a swarm of black ants were crawling about its lips and throat. Its eye moved to the bottle which Hans held in his hand. He raised it, drank, spurned the animal with his foot, and passed on. And he did not know how it was, but he thought that a strange shadow had sud- denly come across the blue sky. The path became steeper and more rugged every moment; and the high hill air, instead of refreshing him, seemed to throw his blood into a fever. The noise of the hill cataracts sounded like mockery in his ears; they were all distant, and his thirst increased every mo- ment. Another hour passed, and he again looked down to the flask at his side ; it was half empty, but there was much more than three drops in it. He stopped to open it, and again, as he did so, something moved in the path above him. It was a fair child, stretched nearly lifeless on the rock, its breast heaving with thirst, its eyes closed, and its lips parched and burning. Hans eyed it delib- erately, drank, and passed on. And a dark gray cloud came over the sun, and long snake-like shadows crept up along the mountain-sides. Hans struggled on. The sun was sinking, but its descent seemed to bring no coolness ; the leaden weight of the dead air pressed upon his brow and heart, but the goal was near. He saw the cataract of the Golden River springing from the hillside, scarcely five hundred feet above him. He paused for a moment to breathe, and sprang on to complete his task. At this instant a faint cry fell on his ear. He turned, and saw a gray-haired old man extended on the rocks. 26 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER His eyes were sunk, his features deadly pale, and gath- ered into an expression of despair. " Water ! " — He stretched his arms to Hans, and cried feebly, — " Wa- ter! I am dying." "I have none," replied Hans; "thou hast had thy share of life." He strode over the prostrate body, and darted on. And a flash of blue lightning rose out of the east, shaped like a sword ; it shook thrice over the whole heaven, and left it dark with one heavy, impenetrable shade. The sun was setting; it plunged toward the horizon like a red-hot ball. The roar of the Golden River rose on Hans's ear. He stood at the brink of the chasm through which it ran. Its waves were filled with the red glory of the sun- set; they shook their crest like tongues of fire, and flashes of bloody light gleamed along their foam. Their sound came mightier and mightier on his senses; his brain grew giddy with the prolonged thunder. Shud- dering, he drew the flask from his girdle, and hurled it into the centre of the torrent. As he did so, an icy chill shot through his limbs; he . staggered, shrieked, and fell. The waters closed over his cry. And the moaning of the river rose wildly into the night, as it gushed over The Black Stone. IV Poor little Gluck waited very anxiously alone in the house for Hans's return. Finding he did not come back, he was terribly frightened, and went and told Schwartz in the prison all that had happened. Then Schwartz 27 MODERN STORIES was very much pleased, and said that Hans must cer- tainly have been turned into a black stone, and he should have all the gold to himself. But Gluck was very sorry, and cried all night. When he got up in the morning there was no bread in the house, nor any money; so Gluck went and hired himself to another goldsmith, and he worked so hard, and so neatly, and so long every day, that he soon got money enough together to pay his brother's fine, and he went and gave it all to Schwartz, and Schwartz got out of prison. Then Schwartz was quite pleased, and said he should have some of the gold of the river. But Gluck only begged he would go and see what had become of Hans. Now when Schwartz had heard that Hans had stolen the holy water, he thought to himself that such a pro- ceeding might not be considered altogether correct by the King of the Golden River, and determined to man- age matters better. So he took some more of Gluck's money, and went to a bad priest, who gave him some holy water very readily for it. Then Schwartz was sure it was all quite right. So Schwartz got up early in the morning before the sun rose, and took some bread and wine in a basket, and put his holy water in a flask, and set off for the mountains. Like his brother, he was much surprised at the sight of the glacier, and had great difficulty in crossing it, even after leaving his basket behind him. The day was cloudless, but not bright: a heavy purple haze was hanging over the sky, and the hills looked lowering and gloomy. And as Schwartz climbed the steep rock path, the thirst came upon him, as it had upon his brother, until he lifted his flask to his 28 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER lips to drink. Then he saw the fair child lying near him on the rocks, and it cried to him, and moaned for water. "Water, indeed!" said Schwartz. "I haven't half enough for myself," and passed on. And as he went he thought the sunbeams grew more dim, and he saw a low bank of black cloud rising out of the west; and when he had climbed for another hour the thirst over- came him again, and he would have drunk. Then he saw the old man lying before him on the path, and heard him cry out for water. " Water, indeed ! " said Schwartz. "I have n't half enough for myself," and on he went. Then again the light seemed to fade from before his eyes, and he looked up, and, behold, a mist of the color of blood had come over the sun ; and the bank of black cloud had risen very high, and its edges were tossing and tumbling like the waves of the angry sea. And they cast long shadows, which flickered over Schwartz's path. Then Schwartz climbed for another hour, and again his thirst returned ; and as he lifted his flask to his lips, he thought he saw his brother Hans lying exhausted on the path before him, and as he gazed the figure stretched its arms to him, and cried for water. " Ha, ha," laughed Schwartz, " are you there ? Remember the prison bars, my boy. Water, indeed ! do you suppose I carried it all the way up here for you ? " And he strode over the fig- ure; yet, as he passed, he thought he saw a strange ex- pression of mockery about its lips. And, when he had gone a few yards farther, he looked back; but the fig- ure was not there. And a sudden horror came over Schwartz, he knew MODERN STORIES not why; but the thirst for gold prevailed over his fear, and he rushed on. And the bank of black cloud rose to the zenith, and out of it came bursts of spiry lightning, and waves of darkness seemed to heave and float be- tween their flashes over the whole heavens. And the sky where the sun was setting was all level, and like a lake of blood ; and a strong wind came out of that sky, tearing its crimson clouds into fragments, and scatter- ing them far into the darkness. And when Schwartz stood by the brink of the Golden River, its waves were black like thunder-clouds, but their foam was like fire; and the roar of the waters below and the thunder above met, as he cast the flask into the stream. And, as he did so, the lightning glared in his eyes, and the earth gave way beneath him, and the waters closed over his cry. And the moaning of the river rose wildly into the night, as it gushed over The Two Black Stones. V When Gluck found that Schwartz did not come back, he was very sorry, and did not know what to do. He had no money, and was obliged to go and hire himself again to the goldsmith, who worked him very hard, and gave him very little money. So, after a month or two, Gluck grew tired, and made up his mind to go and try his fortune with the Golden River. " The little king looked very kind," thought he. "I don't think he will turn me into a black stone." So he went to the priest, and the priest gave him some holy water as soon as he 30 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER asked for it. Then Gluck took some bread in his basket, and the bottle of water, and set off very early for the mountains. If the glacier had occasioned a great deal of fatigue to his brothers, it was twenty times worse for him, who was neither so strong nor so practised on the moun- tains. He had several very bad falls, lost his basket and bread, and was very much frightened at the strange noises under the ice. He lay a long time to rest on the grass, after he had got over, and began to climb the hill just in the hottest part of the day. When he had climbed for an hour, he got dreadfully thirsty, and was going to drink like his brothers, when he saw an old man com- ing down the path above him, looking very feeble, and leaning on a staff. " My son," said the old man, " I am faint with thirst; give me some of that water." Then Gluck looked at him, and when he saw that he was pale and weary, he gave him the water. " Only pray don't drink it all," said Gluck. But the old man drank a great deal, and gave him back the bottle two thirds empty. Then he bade him good speed, and Gluck went on again merrily. And the path became easier to his feet, and two or three blades of grass appeared upon it, and some grasshoppers began singing on the bank beside it; and Gluck thought he had never heard such merry singing. Then he went on for another hour, and the thirst in- creased on him so that he thought he should be forced to drink. But, as he raised the flask, he saw a little child lying panting by the roadside, and it cried out piteously tor water. Then Gluck struggled with himself and de- 31 MODERN STORIES termined to bear the thirst a little longer; and he put the bottle to the child's lips, and it drank it all but a few drops. Then it smiled on him and got up, and ran down the hill; and Gluck looked after it, till it became as small as a little star, and then turned, and began climb- ing again. And then there were all kinds of sweet flowers growing on the rocks, bright green moss, with pale pink starry flowers, and soft-belled gentians, more blue than the sky at its deepest, and pure white transparent lilies. And crimson and purple butterflies darted hither and thither, and the sky sent down such pure light that Gluck had never felt so happy in his life. Yet, when he had climbed for another hour, his thirst became intolerable again; and, when he looked at his bottle, he saw that there were only five or six drops left in it, and he could not venture to drink. And as he was hanging the flask to his belt again, he saw a little dog lying on the rocks, gasping for breath, — just as Hans had seen it on the day of his ascent. And Gluck stopped and looked at it, and then at the Golden River, not five hundred yards above him ; and he thought of the dwarf's words, that no one could succeed, except in his first attempt; and he tried to pass the dog, but it whined piteously, and Gluck stopped again. "Poor beastie," said Gluck, * it '11 be dead when I come down again, if I don't help it." Then he looked closer and closer at it, and its eye turned on him so mournfully that he could not stand it. w Confound the king and his gold, too ! " said Gluck; and he opened the flask, and poured all the water into the dog's mouth. The dog sprang up and stood on its hind legs. Its 32 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER tail disappeared, its ears became long, longer, silky, golden; its nose became very red, its eyes became very twinkling; in three seconds the dog was gone, and be- fore Gluck stood his old acquaintance, the Xing of the Golden River. "Thank you," said the monarch; "but don't be frightened, it's all right;" for Gluck showed manifest symptoms of consternation at this unlooked-for reply to his last observation. " Why did n't you come before," continued the dwarf, "instead of sending me those rascally brothers of yours, for me to have the trouble of turning into stones? Very hard stones they make, too." " Oh, dear me ! " said Gluck, " have you really been so cruel?" " Cruel ? " said the dwarf. " They poured unholy water into my stream, — do you suppose I 'm going to allow that?" "Why," said Gluck, "I am sure, sir, — your majesty, I mean, — they got the water out of the church font." "Very probably," replied the dwarf; "but," and his countenance grew stern as he spoke, " the water which has been refused to the cry of the weary and dying is unholy, though it had been blessed by every saint in heaven; and the water which is found in the vessel of mercy is holy, though it had been defiled with corpses." So saying, the dwarf stooped and plucked a lily that grew at his feet. On its white leaves hung three drops of clear dew, and the dwarf shook them into the flask which Gluck held in his hand. "Cast these into the river," he said, "and descend on the other side of the S3 MODERN STORIES mountains into the Treasure Valley. And so good speed." As he spoke, the figure of the dwarf became indis- tinct. The playing colors of his robe formed themselves into a prismatic mist of dewy light; he stood for an instant veiled with them as with the belt of a broad rainbow. The colors grew faint, the mist rose into the air; the monarch had evaporated. And Gluck climbed to the brink of the Golden River, and its waves were as clear as crystal and as brilliant as the sun. And when he cast the three drops of dew into the stream, there opened where they fell a small circular whirlpool, into which the waters descended with a musical noise. Gluck stood watching it for some time, very much disappointed, because not only the river was not turned into gold, but its waters seemed much diminished in quantity. Yet he obeyed his friend the dwarf, and de- scended the other side of the mountains, toward the Treasure Valley; and, as he went, he thought he heard the noise of water working its way under the ground. And when he came in sight of the Treasure Valley, be- hold, a river like the Golden River was springing from a new cleft of the rocks above it, and was flowing in innumerable streams among the dry heaps of red sand. And as Gluck gazed, fresh grass sprang beside the new streams, and creeping plants grew, and climbed among the moistening soil. Young flowers opened sud- denly along the river sides, as stars leap out when twilight is deepening, and thickets of myrtle and ten- drils of vine cast lengthening shadows over the valley 34 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER as they grew. And thus the Treasure Valley became a garden again, and the inheritance which had been lost by cruelty, was regained by love. And Gluck went and dwelt in the valley, and the poor were never driven from his door; so that his barns be- came full of corn, and his house of treasure. And, for him, the river had, according to the dwarf's promise, become a River of Gold. And to this day the inhabitants of the valley point out the place where the three drops of holy dew were cast into the stream, and trace the course of the Golden River under the ground, until it emerges in the Treasure Valley. And at the top of the cataract of the Golden River are still to be seen two black stones, round which the waters howl mournfully every day at sunset; and these stones are still called, by the people of the valley, The Black Brothers. AT AUTON HOUSE By Augustus Hoppin I IN THE AUTON NURSERY A LOVE for drawing was a marked characteris- tic among the Auton boys. Deb 'rah used to say that we got it from our "father's side," whatever that expression might mean; we stimulated it by constant exercise, so that it became a source of intense enjoy- ment. A habit of observation resulted in great facility of expression, which converted Auton nursery into an infant drawing-school. The delineation of figures was our especial hobby, so that whenever a new drawing- book came into our possession we immediately set to work on some favorite beast, generally a horse. We drew his ears first because this gave us time to decide, as we proceeded, whether he should be running away or only in the stable. A favorite way we had was to sit in little chairs, all in a row, with our slates on our knees, and see who could draw the best lion or the fastest trot- ter. These sketches, when completed, were submitted to our older brothers for judgment. Sometimes Father Auton would visit the nursery, and with his great thumb rub out the fore legs of our favorite horse, telling us that we "never saw a leg crooked up in that way; it was 36 AT AUTON HOUSE all wrong, and we must try again." So away we went to work once more, and with better results. In these friendly bouts we discovered the secret of making a horse look as if he were actually moving along the road. We found that motion could not be indicated unless all the legs of the animal were off the ground at once, and that the moment any part of him touched the earth this idea of motion ceased. We tried in all sorts of ways to prove this. We got down upon our hands and knees and trotted about the nursery floor. We sat at the window listening to the sound of a horse trotting on the cobble-stones. We watched the animals in every possible position as they sped by us, to detect some point of time when all four legs were off the ground at once. After many weary watchings we settled the question in the affirmative, so that Auton nursery became the last court of appeal on all trotting questions. This practice of observation was valuable to us in a variety of ways. For instance, in order to catch the correct movement of a tiger dispatching his victim, Deb 'rah would allow us to take our beefsteak and our cutlets out of our plates down on the nursery floor. Here, crouching over our imaginary hunter or expir- ing buffalo between our paws, we tore off great pieces of his flesh from the bone, and, raising aloft our defi- ant but greasy visages, swallowed the morsel without mastication. In this way we caught what we called the "feel" of the tiger, and could thus impart to our representation of him a greater amount of snarl and ferocity. Then again, in the same manner, by constant practice we 37 MODERN STORIES could imitate the proud walk of a rooster among the hens. We scratched up imaginary Easter- worms ; we cocked our heads from side to side, as if our eyes were on our temples. We flapped our arms and crew from the backs of chairs and imaginary hen-coops, and pecked at fancied pullets that presumed to come too near our harem. Thus we imbibed something of that "inner consciousness" of an ordinary red rooster, which en- abled us to draw him out on the slate so vividly that one could almost hear him crow. The natural result of this artistic diathesis were moving dioramas, stuffed elephants, living tableaux, and private theatricals. On the evenings of such exhibitions, our sisters were sta- tioned at the confectionery table, where diminutive sticks of candy were sold for a cent apiece to our long- suffering audience, who sat for our sakes on the hardest kind of boards in Egyptian darkness for two mortal hours. The fund realized from this source was expended in blue cambric and pasteboard for the diorama. F. Auton carved with his jack-knife the little wooden automata which figured in the different scenes. Bill Paine was the magician who appeared in the interludes and swallowed fire, while H. Auton manipulated the strings which set in motion the dioramic world. One of our scenes represented a cobbler's shop. The cur- tain rose. The shoemaker sat at his bench pegging his shoe. A knock was heard at the door. The old fellow raised his head and asked the stranger to walk in. The door opened, a well-dressed individual entered who asked to have his shoe mended. Up went his leg to exhibit the rent. The cobbler inspected it, and said he 38 AT AUTON HOUSE would patch it the next day. Down went the leg. Right about went the stranger. The door flew open and he disappeared, whereupon the cobbler dropped his head and commenced pegging away again at his shoe, and the scene ended amid the plaudits of the audience hid- den in the cimmerian darkness above alluded to. After- wards came a tiger scene in South Africa, and a black- smith shop on the road to Pomfret, and a pasteboard naval battle in the War of 1812; and enough more wonderful things fully worth the price of admission, which was five cents. We used to print and sell the tickets for these dioramas weeks before we had done the first thing to the exhibition itself. The advantage of this arrangement was that quite often the affair never came off, and yet the buyers of our tickets scarcely ever consented to take back their cash. This was a mean trick of ours to make money, but the idea must have been put into our heads by those strange boys who came into our yard and were forever begging to "belong." This word, translated, meant to become one of the pro- prietors of the company, having a right to a full share in the profits without doing any of the work. It was a wonderful sight to creep under the gay drapery which concealed the machinery of our exhibition, and view the spot where H. Auton pulled that wilderness of strings which set in motion the little world above him. One small smoky lamp from the kitchen stood in the corner and shed a flickering light around. A tangled web of threads with labels attached to the ends hung from little holes over his head. One string went to the old cobbler's arm, another lifted the stranger's leg. This 39 MODERN STORIES one made the Bengal tiger spring at the native, and that pulled down the mainmast of the Guerriere, shot away by the brave boys in the Constitution; and so on, through all the scenes. H. Auton sat on a little cricket with his legs crossed and his head bent back, studying the forest of threads above him. Great drops of perspiration stood on his upper lip and dropped off his chin. He breathed an atmosphere which would have suffocated anybody but a boy or an Esquimaux. II CHRISTMAS AT AUTON HOUSE Queer as it may seem, the Autons never hung up their stockings at Christmas. They put out their shoes instead. Why it was so is a question, but as no Auton ever did it, no Auton ever would. We regularly sang, however, Mr. Moore's "Night before Christmas," and thought we had fully complied with the requirements of the lines : — "The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In the hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there." Possibly this departure from the ancient rule arose from our custom of receiving presents after breakfast, and also that our great, great, great grandmother was a French Huguenot, and preferred the sabot. We only troubled Santa Claus in the early morning for a bundle of candy, and such other knickknacks as he might feel inclined to bestow. Our boots and shoes being the chosen vessels to re- 40 AT AUTON HOUSE ceive this early freight, they were set on the mahogany table in the upper hall, and were ranged from father's down to the eleventh Auton's in regular gradation. Our big brother was expected home by the early boat, so that, together with other anticipations, drove sleep from our pillows. From hour to hour on the night pre- ceding Christmas we raised our uneasy, tumbled heads from our couches, hoping it was light enough to scream out, in one word, " wishy'rmerryChristmas," but some- how the sun stuck down and wouldn't "hurry up." But at the faintest suspicion of dawn we thumped poor Deb'rah with our feet to go for our shoes. Oh! how dead with sleep that much-abused nurse used to be, curled up on the edge of the bed! Knowing that she would be called upon at a moment's notice, this model guardian of babyhood always kept about her a flannel garment, ready to fly at the first thump. I can remem- ber, as if it were yesterday, just how that flannel pet- ticoat felt to my boyish feet as I pushed and pushed her, little by little, off the edge of the bed to wake her up. As the sun mounted the heavens six or eight Autons, with shoes before them, sat bolt upright in bed destroy- ing their appetites. By eight o'clock Auton nursery was nauseated, and the bare idea of breakfast was revolting. Our big bro- ther, however, was not at all excited by this exceptional state of things. He drank his coffee, ate his u drop cakes," and conversed with Father Auton about the news from the metropolis as if there never was any such thing as Christmas. With one leg crossed contentedly over the other he read, and read, and read the morning paper 41 MODERN STORIES until we children were fairly exasperated with him. There could be no fun upstairs until he came, because Mother Auton would have waited for him a whole day, if necessary, before distributing the presents. To our great relief he joined at last the noisy throng as it swept like a breeze up the front stairs into " mother's room." Deb'rah's small-armed half-sister "Ruby" used to say, when inquiry was made concerning her health, "that she was pretty poorly," and that expresses the state of Mother Auton 's feelings a good deal of the time at that epoch. She thought that each Christmas would be the last one she was to be with us, so that in the midst of our hilarity we always had a tear in one eye. If the amount of delight which danced in our expectant hearts on those Christmas mornings could have been fairly put into the scales and held there long enough, it would have weighed down a continent. Mother Auton went to one particular deep drawer, in one particular bureau, on one particular side of the room, and there, standing before its open mouth, with tears in her dear eyes and a trembling in her speech, she placed in our hands the little tokens of her affection, one after another, from father down to Rosannah, the cook, with such little speeches as — "Accept this, my dear, as a fond token of affection from your mother," etc.; and "This silk, dear E., was the nearest I could get like the one you wanted so much," etc.; or "Take this remembrance, C. Auton, from your loving mother," etc.; and "This, my darling, is a small affair, but," etc., etc., etc. And so she went down the 42 AT AUTON HOUSE whole row, keeping us just between smiles and tears all the time, until the festival was closed. Dear, dear Mother Auton ! The remembrance of those beatific days, that mys- tic association which clings to Christmas-tide, and the precious memories which they bring to us of maternal love and noble unselfishness, have imparted strength to endure that bitter burden of disappointment and death which sooner or later falls to the lot of every human creature. TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS By Kate Douglas Wiggin IS'POSE they'll make an awful row at being sep- arated, won't they ? " asked the younger woman. "Oh, like as not; but they'll have to have their row and get over it," said Mrs. Simmons, easily. "You can take Timothy to the Orphan Asylum first, and then come back, and I '11 carry the baby to the Home of the Ladies' Relief and Protection Society; and if they yell they can yell, and take it out in yellin'; they won't get the best of Nancy Simmons." " Don't talk so loud, Nancy, for mercy's sake. If the boy hears you, he'll begin to take on, and we shan't get a wink of sleep. Don't let 'em know what you're goin' to do with 'em till the last minute, or you '11 have trouble as sure as we sit here." "Oh, they are sound asleep," responded Mrs. Sim- mons, with an uneasy look at the half-open door. "I went in and dragged a pillow out from under Timothy's head, and he never budged. He was sleepin' like a log, and so was Gay. Now, shut up, Et, and let me get three winks myself. You take the lounge, and I'll stretch out in two chairs. Wake me up at eight o'clock, if I don't wake myself; for I'm clean tired out with all this fussin' and plannin', and I feel stupid enough to sleep till kingdom come." 44 TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS When the snores of the two watchers fell on the still- ness of the death-chamber, with that cheerful regular- ity that betokens the sleep of the truly good, a quiet figure crept out of the bed in the adjoining room and closed the door noiselessly, but with trembling fingers; stealing then to the window to look out at the dirty street and the gray sky, over which the first faint streaks of dawn were beginning to creep. It was little Timothy Jessup (God alone knows whether he had any right to that special patronymic), but not the very same Tim Jessup who had kissed the baby Gay in her little crib, and gone to sleep on his own hard bed in that room, a few hours before. As he stood shivering at the window, one thin hand hard pressed upon his heart to still its beating, there was a light of sudden resolve in his eyes, a new-born look of anxiety on his unchildlike face. "I will not have Gay protectioned and reliefed, and I will not be taken away from her and sent to a 'sylum, where I can never find her again!" and with these defiant words trembling, half spoken, on his lips, he glanced from the unconscious form in the crib to the terrible door, which might open at any moment and divide him from his heart's delight, his darling, his treasure, his only joy, his own, own baby Gay. But what should he do ? Run away : that was the only solution of the matter, and no very difficult one either. The cruel women were asleep; the awful Thing that had been Flossy would never speak again; and no one else in Minerva Court cared enough for them to pursue them very far or very long. 45 MODERN STORIES (e And so," thought Timothy, swiftly, " I will get things ready, take Gay, and steal softly out of the back door, and run away to the 'truly' country, where none of these bad people ever can find us, and where I can get a mother for Gay, — somebody to 'dopt her and love her till I grow up a man and take her to live with me." The moment this thought darted into Timothy's mind, it began to shape itself in definite action. Gabrielle, or Lady Gay, as Flossy called her, in honor of her favorite stage heroine, had been tumbled into her crib half dressed the night before. The only vehicle kept for her use in the family stables was a clothes- basket, mounted on four wooden wheels and cushioned with a dingy shawl. A yard of clothes-line was tied on one end of it, and in this humble conveyance the princess would have to be transported from the Ogre's castle; for she was scarcely old enough to accompany the prince on foot, even if he had dared to risk detec- tion by waking her: so the clothes-basket must be her chariot, and Timothy her charioteer, as on many a less fateful expedition. After he had changed his ragged night-gown for a shabby suit of clothes, he took Gay's one clean apron out of a rickety bureau drawer ("for I can never find a mother for her if she's too dirty," he thought), her Sunday hat from the same receptacle, and last of all a comb, and a faded Japanese parasol that stood in a corner. These he deposited under the old shawl that decorated the floor of the chariot. He next groped his way in the dim light toward a mantel-shelf, and took down a savings-bank, — a florid little structure with 46 TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS " Bank of England " stamped over the miniature door, into which the jovial gentleman who frequented the house often slipped pieces of silver for the children, and into which Flossy dipped only when she was in a state of temporary financial embarrassment. Timothy did not dare to jingle it; he could only hope that as Flossy had not been in her usual health of late (though in more than her usual "spirits"), she had not felt obliged to break the bank. Now for provisions. There were plenty of "funeral baked meats" in the kitchen; and he hastily gathered a dozen cookies into a towel, and stowed them in the coach with the other sinews of war. So far, well and good; but the worst was to come. With his heart beating in his bosom like a trip-ham- mer, and his eyes dilated with fear, he stepped to the door between the two rooms, and opened it softly. Two thundering snores, pitched in such different keys that they must have proceeded from two separate sets of nasal organs, reassured the boy. He looked out into the alley. "Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." The Minerva Courtiers could n't be owls and hawks too, and there was not even the ghost of a sound to be heard. Satisfied that all was well, Timothy went back to the bedroom, and lifted the battered clothes-basket, trucks and all, in his slender arms, carried it up the alley and down the street a little distance, and deposited it on the pavement beside a vacant lot. This done, he sped back to the house. " How beautifully they snore!" he thought, as he stood again on the threshold. " Shall I leave 'em a letter ? P'raps I better — and then 47 MODERN STORIES they won't follow us and bring us back." So he scrib- bled a line on a bit of torn paper bag, and pinned it on the enemies' door. A kind Lady is goin to Adopt us it is a Grate ways off so do not Hunt good by. Tim. Now all was ready. No; one thing more. Timothy had been met in the street by a pretty young girl a few weeks before. The love of God was smiling in her heart, the love of children shining in her eyes; and she led him, a willing captive, into a mission Sunday-school near by. And so much in earnest was the sweet little teacher, and so hungry for any sort of good tidings was the starved little pupil, that Timothy "got religion" then and there, as simply and naturally as a child takes its mother's milk. He was probably in a state of crass ignorance regarding the Thirty-nine Articles; but it was the "engrafted word," of which the Bible speaks, that had blossomed in Timothy's heart; the living seed had always been there, waiting for some beneficent fostering influence ; for he was what dear Charles Lamb would have called a natural " kingdom-of-heavenite." Thinking, therefore, of Miss Dora's injunction to pray over all the extraordinary affairs of life and as many of the ordinary ones as possible, he hung his tattered straw hat on the bedpost, and knelt beside Gay's crib with this whispered prayer: — "Our Father who art in heaven, please help me to find a mother for Gay, one that she can call Mamma, and another one for me, if there 's enough, but not unless. 48 ** SHE WAS SAKE ON HER BELOVED TIMOTHY'S SHOULDER 3E8BE: iS TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS Please excuse me for taking away the clothes-basket, which does not exactly belong to us, but if I do not take it, dear heavenly Father, how will I get Gay to the rail- road ? And if I don't take the Japanese umbrella she will get freckled, and nobody will adopt her on account of her red hair. No more at present, as I am in a great hurry. Amen." He put on his hat, stooped over the sleeping baby, and took her in his faithful arms, — arms that had never failed her yet. She half opened her eyes, and see- ing that she was safe on her beloved Timothy's shoul- der, clasped her dimpled arms tight about his neck, and with a long sigh drifted off again into the land of dreams. Bending beneath her weight, he stepped for the last time across the threshold, not even daring to close the door behind him. Up the alley and round the corner he sped as fast as his trembling legs could carry him. Just as he was within sight of the goal of his ambition, that is, the chariot aforesaid, he fancied he heard the sound of hurrying feet behind him. To his fevered imagination the tread was like that of an avenging army on the track of the foe. He did not dare to look behind. On! for the clothes-basket and liberty! He would relinquish the Japanese umbrella, the cookies, the comb, and the apron, — all the booty, in fact, — as an inducement for the enemy to retreat, but he would never give up the prisoner. On the feet hurried, faster and faster. He stooped to put Gay in the basket, and turned in despair to meet his pursuers, when a little grimy, rough-coated, 49 MODERN STORIES lop-eared, split-tailed thing, like an animated rag-bag, leaped upon his knees, whimpering with joy, and im- ploring, with every grace that his simple doggish heart could suggest, to be one of the eloping party. Rags had followed them! Timothy was so glad to find it no worse that he wasted a moment in embracing the dog, whose delirious joy at the prospect of this probably dinnerless and sup- perless expedition was ludicrously exaggerated. Then he took up the rope and trundled the chariot gently down a side street leading to the station. Everything worked to a charm. They met only an occasional milk (and water) man, starting on his ma- tutinal rounds, for it was now after four o'clock, and one or two cavaliers of uncertain gait, just returning to their homes, several hours too late for their own good; but these gentlemen were in no condition of mind to be overinterested, and the little fugitives were troubled with no questions as to their intentions. And so they went out into the world together, these three: Timothy Jessup (if it was Jessup), brave little knight, nameless nobleman, tracing his descent back to God, the Father of us all, and bearing the Divine likeness more than most of us; the little Lady Gay, — somebody — nobody — anybody, — from nobody knows where, — destination equally uncertain; and Rags, of pedigree most doubtful, scutcheon quite ob- scured by blots, but a perfect gentleman, true-hearted and loyal to the core, — in fact, an angel in fur. These three, with the clothes-basket as personal property and the Bank of England as security, went out to seek their 50 TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS fortune; and, unlike Lot's wife, without daring to look behind, shook the dust of Minerva Court from off their feet forever and forever. At this moment a large, comfortable white house, that had been heretofore hidden by great trees, came into view. Timothy drew nearer to the spotless picket fence, and gazed upon the beauties of the side yard and the front garden, — gazed and gazed, and fell desper- ately in love at first sight. The whole thing had been made as if to order; that is all there is to say about it. There was an orchard, and, oh, ecstasy! what hosts of green apples! There was an interesting grindstone under one tree, and a bright blue chair and stool under another; a thicket of currant and gooseberry bushes ; and a flock of young turkeys ambling awkwardly through the barn. Tim- othy stepped gently along in the thick grass, past a pump and a mossy trough, till a side porch came into view, with a woman sitting there sewing bright-colored rags. A row of shining tin pans caught the sun's rays, and threw them back in a thousand glittering prisms of light; the grasshoppers and crickets chirped sleepily in the warm grass, and a score of tiny yellow butterflies hovered over a group of odorous hollyhocks. Suddenly the person on the porch broke into this cheerful song, which she pitched in so high a key and gave with such emphasis that the crickets and grass- hoppers retired by mutual consent from any further competition, and the butterflies suspended operations for several seconds: — 51 MODERN STORIES "I'll chase the antelope over the plain, The tiger's cub I'll bind with a chain, And the wild gazelle with its silv'ry feet I'll bring to thee for a playmate sweet." Timothy listened intently for some moments, but could not understand the words, unless the lady hap- pened to be in the menagerie business, which he thought unlikely, but delightful should it prove true. His eye then fell on a little marble slab under a tree in a shady corner of the orchard. "That's a country doorplate," he thought; "yes, it's got the lady's name, 'Martha Cummins,' printed on it. Now I'll know what to call her." He crept softly on to the front side of the house. There were flower-beds, a lovable white cat snoozing on the doorsteps, and — a lady sitting at the open win- dow knitting! At this vision Timothy's heart beat so hard against his dusty jacket that he could only stagger back to the basket, where Rags and Lady Gay were snuggled to- gether, fast asleep. He anxiously scanned Gay's face; moistened his rag of a handkerchief at the only avail- able source of supply; scrubbed an atrocious dirt spot from the tip of her spirited nose; and then, dragging the basket along the path leading to the front gate, he opened it and went in, mounted the steps, plied the brass knocker, and waited in childlike faith for a sum- mons to enter and make himself at home. Meanwhile, Miss Avilda Cummins had left her win- dow and gone into the next room for a skein of yarn. She answered the knock, however; and, opening the 52 TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS door, stood rooted to the threshold in speechless aston- ishment, very much as if she had seen the shades of her ancestors drawn up in line in the dooryard. Off went Timothy's hat. He had n't seen the lady's face very clearly when she was knitting at the window, or he would never have dared to knock; but it was too late to retreat. Looking straight into her cold eyes with his own shining gray ones, he said, bravely, but with a trembling voice, " Do you need any babies here, if you please?" (Need any babies! What an inappropriate, nonsensical expression, to be sure; as if a household baby were something exquisitely indispensable, like the breath of life, for instance!) No answer. Miss Vilda was trying to assume com- mand of her scattered faculties and find some clue to the situation. Timothy concluded that she was not, after all, the lady of the house; and, remembering the mar- ble doorplate in the orchard, tried again. " Does Miss Martha Cummins live here, if you please ? " (Oh, Timothy! what induced you, in this crucial moment of your life, to touch upon that sorest spot in Miss Vilda's memory ?) "What do you want?" she faltered. "I want to get somebody to adopt my baby," he said; " if you have n't got any of your own, you could n't find one half as dear and as pretty as she is; and you need n't have me too, you know, unless you should need me to help take care of her." "You're very kind," Miss Avilda answered sarcas- tically, preparing to shut the door upon the strange child; "but I don't think I care to adopt any babies 53 MODERN STORIES this afternoon, thank you. You 'd better run right back home to your mother, if you 've got one, and know where 't is, anyhow." " But I — I have n't ! " cried poor Timothy, with a sudden and unpremeditated burst of tears at the failure of his hopes; for he was half child as well as half hero. At this juncture Gay opened her eyes, and burst into a wild howl at the unwonted sight of Timothy's grief; and Rags, who was full of exquisite sensibility, and quite ready to weep with those who wept, lifted up his woolly head and added his piteous wails to the con- cert. It was a tableau vivant. "Samanthy Ann!" called Miss Vilda, excitedly; "Samanthy Ann! Come right here and tell me what to do!" The person thus adjured flew in from the porch, leav- ing a serpentine trail of red, yellow, and blue rags in her wake. "Land o' liberty!" she exclaimed, as she sur- veyed the group. " Where 'd they come from, and what air they tryin' to act out ? " "This boy's a baby agent, as near as I can make out; he wants I should adopt this red-headed baby, but says I ain't obliged to take him too, and pretends they have n't got any home. I told him I wan't adoptin' any babies just now, and at that he burst out cryin', and the other two followed suit. Now, have the three of 'em just escaped from some asylum, or are they too little to be lunatics?" Timothy dried his tears, in order that Gay should be comforted and appear at her best, and said, penitently, " I cried before I thought, because Gay has n't had 54 TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS anything but cookies since last night, and she'll have no place to sleep unless you'll let us stay here just till morning. We went by all the other houses, and chose this one because everything was so beautiful." " Nothin' but cookies sence — Land o' liberty ! " ejaculated Samantha Ann, starting for the kitchen. "Come back here, Samanthy! Don't you leave me alone with 'em, and don't let's have all the neighbors runnin' in; you take 'em into the kitchen and give 'em somethin' to eat, and we '11 see about the rest after- wards." Gay kindled at the first casual mention of food ; and, trying to clamber out of the basket, fell over the edge, thumping her head smartly on the stone steps. Miss Vilda covered her face with her hands, and waited shud- deringly for another yell, as the child's carnation stock- ings and terra-cotta head mingled wildly in the air. But Lady Gay disentangled herself, and laughed the merriest burst of laughter that ever woke the echoes. That was a joke; her life was full of them, served fresh every day; for no sort of adversity could long have power over such a nature as hers. " Come, get supper," she cooed, putting her hand in Samantha's; adding that the "nasty lady need n't come," a remark that happily escaped detection, as it was rendered in very unintelli- gible "early English." Miss Avilda tottered into the darkened sitting-room and sank onto a black hair-cloth sofa, while Samantha ushered the wanderers into the sunny kitchen, mutter- ing to herself, " Wall, I vow ! travelin' over the country all alone, 'n' not knee-high to a toad ! They 're sendin* 55 MODERN STORIES out awful young tramps this season, but they shan't go away hungry, if I know it." Accordingly, she set out a plentiful supply of bread and butter, gingerbread, pie, and milk, put a tin plate of cold hash in the shed for Rags, and swept him out to it with a corn broom; and, telling the children com- fortably to cram their "everlastin' little bread-baskets full," returned to the sitting-room. HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY By Thomas Hughes IN all the games, too, Tom joined with all his heart, and soon became well versed in all the mysteries of football, by continued practice at the school-house little-side, which played daily. The only incident worth recording here, however, was the first run at hare-and-hounds. On the last Tues- day but one of the half-year, he was passing through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts from Tadpole and several other fags seated at one of the long tables, the chorus of which was, " Come and help us tear up scent." Tom approached the table in obedience to the mys- terious summons, always ready to help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers, copy- books, and magazines into small pieces, with which they were filling four large canvas bags. " It 's the turn of our house to find scent for big-side hare-and-hounds," exclaimed Tadpole; "tear away, there's no time to lose before calling-over." "I think it's a great shame," said another small boy, "to have such a hard run for the last day." "Which run is it?" said Tadpole. "Oh, the Bar by run, I hear," answered the other, — "nine miles at least, and hard ground; no chance 57 MODERN STORIES of getting in at the finish unless you're a first-rate scud." "Well, I'm going to have a try," said Tadpole; "it's the last run of the half; and if a fellow gets in at the end, big-side stands ale and bread and cheese, and a bowl of punch; and the Cock's such a famous place for ale." "I should like to try, too," said Tom. " Well, then, leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door, after calling-over, and you'll hear where the meet is." After calling-over, sure enough, there were two boys at the door calling out," Big-side hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall;" and Tom, having girded himself with leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing behind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter of a mile from the town, with East, whom he had persuaded to join, notwithstanding his prophecy that they could never get in, as it was the hardest run of the year. At the meet they found some forty or fifty boys; and Tom felt sure, from having seen many of them run at football, that he and East were more likely to get in than they. After a few minutes' waiting, two well-known run- ners, chosen for the hares, buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their watches with those of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a long slinging trot across the fields in the direction of Barby. Then the hounds clustered round Thorne, who ex- plained shortly, "They're to have six minutes' law, 58 HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY We run into the Cock, and every one who comes in within a quarter of an hour of the hares '11 be counted, if he has been round Barby church." Then came a min- ute's pause or so, and then the watches are pocketed, and the pack is led through the gateway into the field which the hares had first crossed. Here they break into a trot, scattering over the field to find the first traces of the scent which the hares throw out as they go along. The old hounds make straight for the likely points, and in a minute a cry of " Forward " comes from one of them, and the whole pack, quickening their pace, make for the spot, while the boy who hit the scent first, and the two or three nearest to him, are over the first fence, and making play along the hedgerow in the long grass- field beyond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap al- ready made, and scramble through, jostling one another. "Forward" again, before they are half through; the pace quickens into a sharp run, the tail hounds all strain- ing to get up with the lucky leaders. They are gallant hares, and the scent lies thick right across another meadow and into a ploughed field, where the pace be- gins to tell; then over a good wattle with a ditch on the other side, and down a large pasture studded with old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook; the great Leicestershire sheep charge away across the field as the pack come racing down the slope. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies right ahead up the oppo- site slope, and as thick as ever; not a turn or a check to favor the tail hounds, who strain on, now trailing in a long line, many a youngster beginning to drag his legs heavily, and feel his heart beat like a hammer, and the 59 MODERN STORIES bad plucked ones thinking that after all it is n't worth while to keep it up. Tom, East, and Tadpole had a good start, and are well up for such young hands, and after rising the slope and crossing the next field, find themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent and are trying back; they have come a mile and a half in about eleven minutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. About twenty-five of the original starters only show here, the rest having already given in ; the leaders are busy making casts into the fields on the left and right, and the others get their second winds. Then comes the cry of " Forward " again, from young Brooke, from the extreme left, and the pack settles down to work again steadily and doggedly, the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though still good, is not so thick; there is no need of that, for in this part of the run every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there are no casts to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be done. All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of Barby Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This last straight two miles and a half is always a vantage ground for the hounds, and the hares know it well; they are generally viewed on the side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them to-day. But not a sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds, and there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is now the hares' turn, and they may baffle the pack dread- fully in the next two miles. 60 HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY 111 fares it now with our youngsters that they are school-house boys, and so follow young Brooke; for he takes the wide casts round to the left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. For if you would consider for a moment, you small boys, you would remember that the Cock, where the run ends and the good ale will be going, lies far out to the right on the Dunchurch road, so that every cast you take to the left is so much extra work. And at this stage of the run, when the evening is closing in already, no one re- marks whether you run a little cunning or not, so you should stick to those crafty hounds who keep edging away to the right, and not follow a prodigal like young Brooke, whose legs are twice as long as yours and of cast-iron, wholly indifferent to two or three miles more or less. However, they struggle after him, sobbing and plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tad- pole, whose big head begins to pull him down, some thirty yards behind. Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly drag their legs; and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left in themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and another check, and then " Forward " called away to the extreme right. The two boys' souls die within them; they can never do it. Young Brooke thinks so, too, and says kindly, " You '11 cross a lane after next field, keep down it, and you'll hit the Dunchurch road below the Cock," and then steams away for the run in, in which he 's sure to 61 MODERN STORIES be first, as if he were just starting. They struggle on across the next field, the " Forwards " getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt is out of ear- shot, and all hope of coming in is over. " Hang it all ! " broke out East, as soon as he had got wind enough, pulling off his hat and mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt and lined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold air. " I told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we are dead beat, and yet I know we're close to the run in, if we knew the country." "Well," said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment, "it can't be helped. We did our best, anyhow. Had n't we better find this lane, and go down it as young Brooke told us ? " "I suppose so — nothing else for it," grunted East. "If ever I go out last day again," growl — growl — growl. So they tried back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went limping down it, plashing in the cold, puddly ruts, and beginning to feel how the run had taken it out of them. The evening closed in fast, and clouded over, dark, cold, and dreary. "I say, it must be locking-up, I should think," re- marked East, breaking the silence; "it's so dark." "What if we're late?" said Tom. "No tea, and sent up to the Doctor," answered East. The thought did n't add to their cheerfulness. Pre- sently a faint halloo was heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping for some com- petent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some 62 HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY twenty yards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse ; he had lost a shoe in the brook, and been groping after it up to his elbows on the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of boy seldom has been seen. The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degrees more wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was now no longer under the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so in better heart, the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At last it widened, just as utter dark- ness set in, and they came out onto a turnpike road, and there paused bewildered, for they had lost all bear- ings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left. Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lum- bering along the road, with one lamp lighted, and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a heavy coach, which after a moment's suspense they recognized as the Ox- ford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle. It lumbered slowly up, and the boys, mustering their last run, caught it as it passed, and began scrambling up behind, in which exploit East missed his footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the others hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed to take them in for a shilling; so there they sat on the back seat, drubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and jogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up. Five minutes afterwards, three small, limping, shiv- ering figures steal along through the Doctor's garden, and into the house by the servants' entrance (all the 63 MODERN STORIES other gates have been closed long since), where the first thing they light upon in the passage is old Thomas, ambling along, candle in one hand and keys in the other. He stops and examines their condition with a grim smile. "Ah! East, Hall, and Brown, late for locking- up. Must go to the Doctor's study at once." " Well, but, Thomas, may n't we go and wash first ? You can put down the time, you know." "Doctor's study d'rectly you come in — that's the orders," replied old Thomas, motioning towards the stairs at the end of the passage which led up into the Doctor's house; and the boys turned ruefully down it, not cheered by the old verger's muttered remark, " What a pickle they boys be in ! " Thomas referred to their faces and habiliments, but they construed it as indicating the Doctor's state of mind. Upon the short flight of stairs they paused to hold counsel. "Who'll go in first?" inquires Tadpole. "You — you're the senior," answered East. "Catch me — look at the state I'm in!" rejoined Hall, showing the arms of his jacket. "I must get behind you two." "Well, but look at me," said East, indicating the mass of clay behind which he was standing; "I'm worse than you, two to one; you might grow cabbages on my trousers." " That 's all down below, and you can keep your legs behind the sofa," said Hall. " Here, Brown, you 're the show-figure — you must lead." 64 HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY "But my face is all muddy," argued Tom. " Oh, we 're all in one boat for that matter; but come on, we're only making it worse, dawdling here." "Well, just give us a brush, then," said Tom; and they began trying to rub off the superfluous dirt from each other's jackets, but it was not dry enough, and the rubbing made it worse; so in despair they pushed through the swing door at the head of the stairs, and found themselves in the Doctor's hall. "That's the library door," said East, in a whisper, pushing Tom forwards. The sound of merry voices and laughter came from within, and his first hesitating knock was unanswered. But at the second, the Doctor's voice said, " Come in; " and Tom turned the handle, and he, with the others behind him, sidled into the room. The Doctor looked up from his task; he was work- ing away with a great chisel at the bottom of a boy's sailing-boat, the lines of which he was no doubt fash- ioning on the model of one of Nicias' galleys. Round him stood three or four children; the candles burnt brightly on a large table at the further end, covered with books and papers, and a great fire threw a ruddy glow over the rest of the room. All looked so kindly, and homely, and comfortable that the boys took heart in a moment, and Tom advanced from behind the shel- ter of the great sofa. The Doctor nodded to the chil- dren, who went out, casting curious and amused glances at the three young scarecrows. "Well, my little fellows," began the Doctor, draw- ing himself up with his back to the fire, the chisel in one hand, and his coat-tails in the other, and his eyes 65 MODERN STORIES twinkling as he looked them over, "what makes you so late?" " Please, sir, we 've been out big-side hare-and-hounds> and lost our way." " Hah ! you could n't keep up, I suppose ? " "Well, sir," said East, stepping out, and not liking that the Doctor should think lightly of his running powers, "we got round Barby all right, but then" — " Why, what a state you 're in, my boy ! " interrupted the Doctor, as the pititul condition of East's garments was fully revealed to him. "That's the fall I got, sir, in the road," said East, looking down at himself; "the Old Pig came by" — "The what?" said the Doctor. "The Oxford coach, sir," explained Hall. "Hah! yes, the Regulator," said the Doctor. "And I tumbled on my face, trying to get up be' hind," went on East. "You're not hurt, I hope?" said the Doctor. "Oh, no, sir!" "Well, now, run upstairs, all three of you, and get clean things on, and then tell the housekeeper to give you some tea. You 're too young to try such long runs. Let Warner know I 've seen you. Good-night." " Good-night, sir." And away scuttled the three boys in high glee. "What a brick, not to give us even twenty lines to learn!" said Tadpole, as they reached their bed- room; and in half an hour afterwards they were sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room at a sumptuous tea, with cold meat, " twice as good a grub as we should 66 HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY have got in the hall," as Tadpole remarked with a grin, his mouth full of buttered toast. All their grievances were forgotten, and they were resolving to go out the first big-side next half, and thinking hare-and-hounds the most delightful of games. THE PRINCE'S VISIT By Horace E. Scudder IT was a holiday in the city, for the Prince was to arrive. As soon as the cannon should sound, the people might know that the Prince had landed from the steamer; and when they should hear the bells ring, that was much the same as being told that the Mayor and Aldermen and City Councilors had welcomed the Prince by making speeches, and shaking hands, and bowing, and drinking wine; and that now the Prince, dressed in splendid clothes, and wearing a feather in his cap, was actually on his way up the main street of the city, seated in a carriage drawn by four coal-black horses, preceded by soldiers and music, and followed by soldiers, citizens in carriages, and people on foot. Now it was the first time that a Prince had ever visited the city, and it might be the only chance that the people ever would get to see a real son of a king; and so it was universally agreed to have a holiday, and long be- fore the bells rang or even the cannon sounded, the people were flocking into the main street, well dressed, as indeed they ought to be, when they were to be seen by a Prince. It was holiday in the stores and in the workshops, although the holiday did not begin at the same hour everywhere. In the great laundry it was to commence 68 THE PRINCE'S VISIT when the cannon sounded; and "weak Job," as his comrades called him, who did nothing all day long but turn the crank that worked a great washing-machine, and which was quite as much, they said, as he had wits to do, listened eagerly for the sound of the cannon ; and when he heard it, he dropped the crank, and getting a nod from the head man, shuffled out of the building and made his way home. Since he had heard of the Prince's coming, Job had thought and dreamed of nothing else; and when he found that they were to have a holiday on his arrival, he was almost beside himself. He bought a picture of the Prince, and pinned it up on the wall over his bed; and when he came home at night, tired and hungry, he would sit down by his mother, who mended rents in the clothes brought to the laundry, and talk about the Prince until he could not keep his eyes open longer; then his mother would kiss him and send him to bed, where he knelt down and prayed the Lord to keep the Prince, and then slept and dreamed of him, dressing him in all the gorgeous colors that his poor imagina- tion could devise, while his mother worked late in her solitary room, thinking of her only boy; and when she knelt down at night, she prayed the Lord to keep him, and then slept, dreaming also, but with various fan- cies; for sometimes she seemed to see Job like his dead father, — strong and handsome and brave and quick- witted, — and now she would see him playing with the children or shuffling down the court with his head leaning on his shoulder. To-day he hurried so fast that he was panting for 69 MODERN STORIES want of breath when he reached the shed-like house where they lived. His mother was watching for him, and he came in nodding his head and rubbing his warm face. "The cannon has gone off, mother!" said he, in great excitement. "The Prince has come!" "Everything is ready, Job," said his mother. "You will find all your things in a row on the bed; " and Job tumbled into his room to dress himself for the holiday. Everything was there as his mother had said; all the old things renewed, and all the new things pieced to- gether that she had worked on so long, and every stitch of which Job had overlooked and almost directed. If there had but been time to spare, how Job would have liked to turn round and round before his scrap of looking-glass; but there was no time to spare, and so in a very few minutes he was out again, and showing himself to his mother. " Is n't it splendid ! " said he, surveying himself from top to toe, and looking with special admiration on a white satin scarf that shone round his throat in daz- zling contrast to the dingy coat, and which had in it an old brooch which Job treasured as the apple of his eye. Job's mother, too, looked at them both; and though she smiled and did not speak, it was only — brave woman ! — because she was choking, as she thought how the satin was the last remnant of her wedding-dress, and the brooch the last trinket left of all given to her years back. "If you would only have let me wear the feather, mother!" said Job sorrowfully, in regretful remem- 70 THE PRINCE'S VISIT brance of one he had long hoarded, and which he had begged hard to wear in his hat. "You look splendidly, Job, and don't need it," said she cheerfully; "and, besides, the Prince wears one, and what would he think if he saw you with one, too ? " "Sure enough!" said Job, who had not thought of that before; and then he kissed her and started off, while she stood at the door looking anxiously after him. "I don't believe," said he aloud, as he went up the court, "that the Prince would mind my wearing a feather; but mother didn't want me to. Hark! there are the bells ! Yes, he has started ! " and Job, forgetting all else, pushed eagerly on. It was a long way from the laundry to his home, and it was a long way, too, from his home to the main street; and so Job had no time to spare if he would get to the crowd in season to see the grand procession, for he wanted to see it all, — from the policemen who cleared the way to the noisy omnibuses and carts that led business once more up the holiday street. On he shambled, knocking against the flagstones and nearly precipitating himself down areas and un- guarded passage-ways. He was now in a cross street, which would bring him before long into the main street, and he even thought he heard the distant music and the cheers of the crowd. His heart beat high, and his face was lighted up until it really looked, in its eager- ness, as intelligent as that of other people, quicker- witted than poor Job. And now he had come in sight of the great thoroughfare; it was yet a good way off, but he could see the black swarms of people that lined 71 MODERN STORIES its edges. The street he was in was quiet; so were all the cross streets, for they had been drained of life to feed the great artery of the main street. There, indeed, was life! upon the sidewalks, packed densely, flowing out in eddies into the alleys and cross streets, rising tier above tier in the shop fronts, filling all the upper win- dows, and fringing even the roofs. Flags hung from house to house, and sentences of welcome were written upon strips of canvas. And if one at this moment, when weak Job was hurrying up the cross street, could have looked from some housetop down the main street, he would have seen the Prince's pageant coming nearer and nearer, and would have heard the growing tumult of brazen music, and the waves of cheers that broke along the lines. It was a glimpse of this sight, and a note of this sound, that weak Job caught in the still street, and with new ardor, although hot and dusty, he pressed on, almost weeping at thought of the joy he was to have. "The Prince is coming," he said aloud, in his excitement. But at the next step, Job, recklessly tumbling along, de- spite his weak and troublesome legs, struck something with his feet, and fell forward upon the walk. He could not stop to see what it was that so suddenly and vexa- tiously tripped him up, and was just moving on with a limp, when he heard behind him a groan and a cry of pain. He turned and saw what his unlucky feet had stumbled over. A poor negro boy, without home or friends, black and unsightly enough, and clad in ragged clothing, had sat down upon the sidewalk, leaning against a tree, and without strength enough to move ? 72 THE PRINCE'S VISIT had been the unwilling stumbling-block to poor Job's progress. As Job turned, the poor boy looked at him beseechingly, and stretched out his hands. But even that was an exertion, and his arms dropped by his side again. His lips moved, but no word came forth; and his eyes even closed, as if he could not longer raise the lids. "He is sick!" said Job, and looked uneasily about. There was no one near. "Hilloa!" cried Job, in dis-' tress; but no one heard except the black, who raised his eyes again to him, and essayed to move. Job started toward him. "Hurrah! hurrah!" sounded in the distant street. The roar of the cheering beat against the houses, and at intervals came gusts of music. Poor Job trembled. "The Prince is coming!" said he; and he turned as if to run. But the poor black would not away from his eyes. "He might die while I was gone," said he, and he turned again to lift him up. "He is sick!" he said again. "I will take him home to mother." " Hurrah ! hurrah ! there he is ! the Prince ! the Prince ! " And the dull roar of the cheering, which had been grow- ing louder and louder, now broke into sharp ringing huzzas as the grand procession passed the head of the cross street. In the carriage, drawn by four coal-black horses, rode the Prince; and he was dressed in splendid clothes, and wore a feather in his cap. The music flowed forth clearly and sweetly. "God save the king!" it sang, and from street and window and housetop the people shouted and waved flags. Hurrah! hurrah! Weak Job, wiping the tears from his eyes, heard the 73 MODERN STORIES sound from afar, but he saw no sight save the poor black whom he lifted from the ground. No sight? Yes, at that moment he did. In that quiet street, standing by the black boy, poor Job — weak Job, whom people pitied — saw a grander sight than all the crowd in the brilliant main street. Well mightst thou stand in dumb awe, holding by the hand the helpless black, poor Job! for in. that in- stant thou didst see with undimmed eyes a pageant such as poor mortals may but whisper of, — even the Prince of Life with his attendant angels moving before thee: yes, and on thee did the Prince look with love, and in thy ears did the heavenly choir and the multi- tudinous voices of gathered saints sing, for of old were the words written, and now thou didst hear them spoken to thyself: — " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. " For whosoever shall receive one of such children in my name, receiveth me." Weak Job, too, had seen the Prince pass. THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER'S HILL By Thomas Bailey Aldrich THE memory of man, even that of the oldest inhab- itant, runneth not back to the time when there did not exist a feud between the North End and the South End boys of Ri vermouth. The origin of the feud is involved in mystery; it is impossible to say which party was the first aggressor in the far-off ante-revolutionary ages; but the fact remains that the youngsters of those antipodal sec- tions entertained a mortal hatred for each other, and that this hatred had been handed down from gen- eration to generation, like Miles Standish's punch- bowl. I know not what laws, natural or unnatural, regu- lated the warmth of the quarrel; but at some seasons it raged more violently than at others. This winter both parties were unusually lively and antagonistic. Great was the wrath of the South-Enders, when they discovered that the North-Enders had thrown up a fort on the crown of Slatter's Hill. Slatter's Hill, or No-man's-land, as it was generally called, was a rise of ground covering, perhaps, an acre and a quarter, situated on an imaginary line, marking the boundary between the two districts. An immense 75 MODERN STORIES stratum of granite, which here and there thrust out a wrinkled boulder, prevented the site from being used for building purposes. The street ran on either side of the hill, from one part of which a quantity of rock had been removed to form the underpinning of the new jail. This excavation made the approach from that point all but impossible, especially when the ragged ledges were a-glitter with ice. You see what a spot it was for a snow fort. One evening twenty or thirty of the North-Enders quietly took possession of Slatter's Hill, and threw up a strong line of breastworks, something after this shape: The rear of the intrenchment, being protected by the quarry, was left open. The walls were four feet high and twenty-two inches thick, strengthened at the angles by stakes driven firmly into the ground. Fancy the rage of the South-Enders the next day, when they spied our snowy citadel, with Jack Harris's red silk pocket-handkerchief floating defiantly from the flagstaff. In less than an hour it was known all over town, in military circles at least, that the "Puddle-dockers" and the "River-rats" (these were the derisive sub- titles bestowed on our South-End foes) intended to attack the fort that Saturday afternoon. At two o'clock all the fighting boys of the Temple 76 THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER'S HILL Grammar School, and as many recruits as we could muster, lay behind the walls of Fort Slatter, with three hundred compact snowballs piled up in pyramids, awaiting the approach of the enemy. The enemy was not slow in making his approach, — fifty strong, headed by one Mat Ames. Our forces were under the com- mand of General J. Harris. Before the action commenced, a meeting was ar- ranged between the rival commanders, who drew up and signed certain rules and regulations respecting the conduct of the battle. As it was impossible for the North- Enders to occupy the fort permanently, it was stipu- lated that the South-Enders should assault it only on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, between the hours of two and six. For them to take possession of the place at any other time was not to constitute a cap- ture, but on the contrary was to be considered a dis- honorable and cowardly act. The North-Enders, on the other hand, agreed to give up the fort whenever ten of the storming party .succeeded in obtaining at one time a footing on the parapet, and were able to hold the same for the space of two minutes. Both sides were to abstain from putting pebbles into their snowballs, nor was it permissible to use frozen ammunition. A snowball soaked in water and left out to cool was a projectile which in previous years had been resorted to with disastrous results. These preliminaries settled, the commanders re- tired to their respective corps. The interview had taken place on the hillside between the opposing lines. 77 MODERN STORIES General Harris divided his men into two bodies: the first comprised the most skillful marksmen, or gunners; the second, the reserve force, was composed of the strongest boys, whose duty it was to repel the scaling parties, and to make occasional sallies for the purpose of capturing prisoners, who were bound by the articles of treaty to faithfully serve under our flag until they were exchanged at the close of the day. The repellers were called light infantry; but when they carried on operations beyond the fort they became cavalry. It was also their duty, when not otherwise en- gaged, to manufacture snowballs. The General's staff consisted of five Templars (I among the number, w T ith the rank of Major), who carried the General's orders and looked after the wounded. General Mat Ames, a veteran commander, was no less wide-awake in the disposition of his army. Five companies, each numbering but six men, in order not to present too big a target to our sharpshooters, were to charge the fort from different points, their advance being covered by a heavy fire from the gunners posted in the rear. Each scaler was provided with only two rounds of ammunition, which were not to be used until he had mounted the breastwork and could deliver his shots on our heads. The following cut represents the interior of the fort just previous to the assault. Nothing on earth could represent the state of things after the first volley. 78 THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER'S HILL a. Flagstaff. b. General Harris and his Staff. c. Ammunition. d. Hospital. e. e. Reserve corps. /. /. Gunners in position. g. g. The quarry, The enemy was posted thus : — 7m* a. a. The five attacking columns, c. General Ames's headquarters. b. b. Artillery. The thrilling moment had now arrived. If I had been going into a real engagement I could not have been more deeply impressed by the importance of the occasion. The fort opened fire first, — a single ball from the dexterous hand of General Harris taking General Ames in the very pit of his stomach. A cheer went up from Fort Slatter. In an instant the air was thick with fly- ing missiles, in the midst of which we dimly descried the storming parties sweeping up the hill, shoulder to shoulder. The shouts of the leaders, and the snow- balls bursting like shells about our ears, made it very lively. 79 MODERN STORIES Not more than a dozen of the enemy succeeded in reaching the crest of the hill; five of these clambered upon the icy walls, where they were instantly grabbed by the legs and jerked into the fort. The rest retired confused and blinded by our well-directed fire. When General Harris (with his right eye bunged up) said, "Soldiers, I am proud of you!" my heart swelled in my bosom. The victory, however, had not been without its price. Six North-Enders, having rushed out to harass the dis- comfited enemy, were gallantly cut off by General Ames and captured. Among these were Lieutenant P. Whit- comb (who had no business to join in the charge, being weak in the knees), and Captain Fred Langdon, of General Harris's staff. Whitcomb was one of the most notable shots on our side, though he was not much to boast of in a rough-and-tumble fight, owing to the weak- ness before mentioned. General Ames put him among the gunners, and we were quickly made aware of the loss we had sustained, by receiving a frequent artful ball which seemed to light with unerring instinct on any nose that was the least bit exposed. I have known one of Pepper's snowballs, fired point-blank, to turn a cor- ner and hit a boy who considered himself absolutely safe. But we had no time for vain regrets. The battle raged. Already there were two bad cases of black eye, and one of nose-bleed, in the hospital. It was glorious excitement, those pell-mell onslaughts and hand-to-hand struggles. Twice we were within an ace of being driven from our stronghold, when Gen- 80 THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER'S HILL eral Harris and his staff leaped recklessly upon the ram- parts and hurled the besiegers heels over head down hill. At sunset, the garrison of Fort Slatter was still un- conquered, and the South-Enders, in a solid phalanx, marched off whistling "Yankee Doodle," while we cheered and jeered them until they were out of hearing. General Ames remained behind to effect an exchange of prisoners. We held thirteen of his men, and he eleven of ours. General Ames proposed to call it an even thing, since many of his eleven prisoners were officers, while nearly all our thirteen captives were privates. A dispute arising on this point, the two noble generals came to fisticuffs, and in the fracas our brave com- mander got his remaining well eye badly damaged. This did n't prevent him from writing a general order the next day, on a slate, in which he complimented the troops on their heroic behavior. On the following Wednesday the siege was renewed. I forget whether it was on that afternoon or the next that we lost Fort Slatter; but lose it we did, with much valuable ammunition and several men. After a series of desperate assaults, we forced General Ames to capitulate; and he, in turn, made the place too hot to hold us. So from day to day the tide of battle surged to and fro, sometimes favoring our arms, and sometimes those of the enemy. General Ames handled his men with great skill; his deadliest foe could not deny that. Once he outgen- eraled our commander in the following manner: He massed his gunners on our left and opened a brisk fire, 81 MODERN STORIES under cover of which a single company (six men) ad- vanced on that angle of the fort. Our reserves on the right rushed over to defend the threatened point. Meanwhile, four companies of the enemy's scalers made a detour round the foot of the hill, and dashed into Fort Slatter without opposition. At the same mo- ment General Ames's gunners closed in on our left, and there we were between two fires. Of course we had to vacate the fort. A cloud rested on General Harris's military reputation until his superior tactics enabled him to dispossess the enemy. As the winter wore on, the war spirit waxed fiercer and fiercer. At length the provision against using heavy substances in the snowballs was disregarded. A ball stuck full of sand-bird shot came tearing into Fort Slat- ter. In retaliation, General Harris ordered a broadside of shells; i. e. snowballs containing marbles. After this, both sides never failed to freeze their ammunition. It was no longer child's play to march up to the walls of Fort Slatter, nor was the position of the besieged less perilous. At every assault three or four boys on each side were disabled. It was not an infrequent oc- currence for the combatants to hold up a flag of truce while they removed some insensible comrade. Matters grew worse and worse. Seven North-Enders had been seriously wounded, and a dozen South-Enders were reported on the sick list. The selectmen of the town awoke to the fact of what was going on, and de- tailed a posse of police to prevent further disturbance. The boys at the foot of the hill, South-Enders as it hap- pened, finding themselves assailed in the rear and on 82 THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER'S HILL the flank, turned round and attempted to beat off the watchmen. In this they were sustained by numerous volunteers from the fort, who looked upon the inter- ference as tyrannical. The watch were determined fellows, and charged the boys valiantly, driving them all into the fort, where we made common cause, fighting side by side like the best of friends. In vain the four guardians of the peace rushed up the hill, flourishing their clubs and calling upon us to surrender. They could not get within ten yards of the fort, our fire was so destructive. In one of the onsets a man named Mugridge, more valorous than his peers, threw himself upon the parapet, when he was seized by twenty pairs of hands, and dragged inside the breastwork, where fifteen boys sat down on him to keep him quiet. Perceiving that it was impossible with their small number to dislodge us, the watch sent for reinforce- ments. Their call was responded to, not only by the whole constabulary force (eight men), but by a numer- ous body of citizens, who had become alarmed at the prospect of a riot. This formidable array brought us to our senses : we began to think that maybe discretion was the better part of valor. General Harris and Gen- eral Ames, with their respective staffs, held a council of war in the hospital, and a backward movement was decided on. So, after one grand farewell volley, we fled, sliding, jumping, rolling, tumbling down the quarry at the rear of the fort, and escaped without losing a man. But we lost Fort Slatter forever. Those battle-scarred 83 MODERN STORIES ramparts were razed to the ground, and humiliating ashes sprinkled over the historic spot, near which a solitary lynx-eyed policeman was seen prowling from time to time during the rest of the winter. The event passed into a legend, and afterwards, when later instances of pluck and endurance were spoken of, the boys would say, "You ought to have been at the fights on Slatter's Hill!" THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER By Charles Dickens SCROOGE and the Ghost of Christmas Present stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow-storms. The house fronts looked black enough, and the win- dows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground ; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the short- est streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts' content. There 85 MODERN STORIES was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavored to diffuse in vain. For the people who were shoveling away on the house-tops were jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then ex- changing a facetious snowball, — better-natured mis- sile far than many a wordy jest, — laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad- girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyra- mids ; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shop- keepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper 86 THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement. The grocers'! oh, the grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humor possible; while the grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind 87 MODERN STORIES might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at, if they chose. But soon the steeples called good people all to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood, with Scrooge beside him, in a baker's doorway, and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their din- ners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humor was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was! In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners, and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven, where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too. " Is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch ? " asked Scrooge. "There is. My own." " Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day ? " asked Scrooge. "To any kindly given. To a poor one most." 88 ' IS THERE A PECULIAR FLAVOR IN WHAT YOU SPRINKLE FROM ** YOUR TORCH?" ASKED SCROOGE. "THERE IS: MY OWN i3£S3f§2E 3SA THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER "Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge. "Because it needs it most." "Spirit," said Scrooge, after a moment's thought, "I wonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp these people's oppor- tunities of innocent enjoyment." "I!" cried the Spirit. "You would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all," said Scrooge, "wouldn't you?" "I!" cried the Spirit. " You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day," said Scrooge. "And it comes to the same thing." "I seek!" exclaimed the Spirit. " Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family," said Scrooge. "There are some upon this earth of yours," re- turned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us, and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's) that, not- withstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood be- neath a low roof quite as gracefully, and like a super- 89 MODERN STORIES natural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall. And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen " bob " a week himself ; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house! Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in rib- bons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, con- ferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own ; and, bask- ing in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, al- 90 THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER though his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled. "What has ever got your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour!" "Here's Martha, mother," said a girl, appearing as she spoke. "Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha!" "Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal. "We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," re- plied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother ! " "Well! Never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!" "No, no! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!" So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him ; and his thread- bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable ; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! 91 MODERN STORIES "Why, where 's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round. "Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from the church, and had come home ram- pant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day!" Martha did n't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. "And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. "As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Some- how he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christ- mas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs, — 92 THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby, — compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenome- non, to which a black swan was a matter of course, — and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before- hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Be- linda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, "Hurrah!" There never was such a goose. Bob said he did n't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its ten- derness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes 93 MODERN STORIES of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great de- light (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they had n't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone — too nervous to bear wit- nesses — to take the pudding up, and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose, — a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed Hallo ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry- cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that ! That was the pudding ! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered — flushed, but smiling proudly — with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity 94 THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass, — two tumblers and a custard-cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done ; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob pro- posed : — "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!" Which all the family reechoed. "God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all. JACKANAPES By Juliana Horatia Ewing I Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds rose o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent, Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; Yet one would I select from that proud throng. To thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for. Byron. TWO Donkeys and the Geese lived on the Green, and all other residents of any social standing lived in houses round it. The houses had no names. Every- body's address was "The Green, 5 ' but the Postman and the people of the place knew where each family lived. As to the rest of the world, what has one to do 96 JACKANAPES with the rest of the world when one is safe at home on one's own Goose Green ? Moreover, if a stranger did come on any lawful business, he might ask his way at the shop. Most of the inhabitants were long-lived, early deaths (like that of the little Miss Jessamine) being excep- tional; and most of the old people were proud of their age, especially the sexton, who would be ninety-nine come Martinmas, and whose father remembered a man who had carried arrows, as a boy, for the battle of Flodden Field. The Gray Goose and the big Miss Jessamine were the only elderly persons who kept their ages secret. Indeed, Miss Jessamine never men- tioned any one's age, or recalled the exact year in which anything had happened. She said that she had been taught that it was bad manners to do so "in a mixed assembly." The Gray Goose also avoided dates; but this was partly because her brain, though intelligent, was not mathematical, and computation was beyond her. She never got farther than "last Michaelmas," "the Mich- aelmas before that," and "the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before that." After this her head, which was small, became confused, and she said, "Ga, ga!" and changed the subject. But she remembered the little Miss Jessamine, the Miss Jessamine with the "conspicuous" hair. Her aunt, the big Miss Jessamine, said it was her only fault. The hair was clean, was abundant, was glossy; but do what you would with it, it never looked quite like ^ther people's. And at church, after Saturday night's 97 MODERN STORIES wash, it shone like the best brass fender after a spring cleaning. In short, it was conspicuous, which does not become a young woman, especially in church. Those were worrying times altogether, and the Green was used for strange purposes. A political meeting was held on it with the village Cobbler in the chair, and a speaker who came by stage-coach from the town, where they had wrecked the bakers' shops, and dis- cussed the price of bread. He came a second time by stage; but the people had heard something about him in the meanwhile, and they did not keep him on the Green. They took him to the pond and tried to make him swim, which he could not do, and the whole affair was very disturbing to all quiet and peaceable fowls. After which another man came, and preached sermons on the Green, and a great many people went to hear him; for those were "trying times," and folk ran hither and thither for comfort. And then what did they do but drill the plowboys on the Green, to get them ready to fight the French, and teach them the goose-step! However, that came to an end at last; for Bony was sent to St. Helena, and the plowboys were sent back to the plow. Everybody lived in fear of Bony in those days, es- pecially the naughty children, who were kept in order during the day by threats of "Bony shall have you," and who had nightmares about him in the dark. They thought he was an Ogre in a cocked hat. The Gray Goose thought he was a Fox, and that all the men of England were going out in red coats to hunt him. It was no use to argue the point; for she had a very small 98 JACKANAPES head, and when one idea got into it there was no room for another. Besides, the Gray Goose never saw Bony, nor did the children, which rather spoilt the terror of him, so that the Black Captain became more effective as a Bogy with hardened offenders. The Gray Goose remem- bered his coming to the place perfectly. What he came for she did not pretend to know. It was all part and parcel of the war and bad times. He was called the Black Captain, partly because of himself and partly because of his wonderful black mare. Strange stories were afloat of how far and how fast that mare could go when her master's hand was on her mane and he whispered in her ear. Indeed, some people thought we might reckon ourselves very lucky if we were not out of the frying-pan into the fire, and had not got a cer- tain well-known Gentleman of the Road to protect us against the French. But that, of course, made him none the less useful to the Johnsons' Nurse when the little Miss Johnsons were naughty. "You leave off crying this minnit, Miss Jane, or I'll give you right away to that horrid wicked officer. Je- mima! just look out o' the windy, if you please, and see if the Black Cap'n's come with his horse to carry away Miss Jane." And there, sure enough, the Black Captain strode by, with his sword clattering as if he did not know whose head to cut off first. But he did not call for Miss Jane that time. He went on to the Green, where he came so suddenly upon the eldest Master Johnson, sitting in a puddle on purpose, in his new nankeen skeleton 99 MODERN STORIES suit, that the young gentleman thought judgment had overtaken him at last, and abandoned himself to the bowlings of despair. His howls were redoubled when he was clutched from behind and swung over the Black Captain's shoulder; but in five minutes his tears were stanched, and he was playing with the officer's accou- trements. All of which the Gray Goose saw with her own eyes, and heard afterwards that that bad boy had been whining to go back to the Black Captain ever since, which showed how hardened he was, and that nobody but Bonaparte himself could be expected to do him any good. But those were "trying times." It was bad enough when the pickle of a large and respectable family cried for the Black Captain; when it came to the little Miss Jessamine crying for him, one felt that the sooner the French landed and had done with it, the better. The big Miss Jessamine's objection to him was that he was a soldier; and this prejudice was shared by all the Green. "A soldier," as the speaker from the town had observed, "is a bloodthirsty, unsettled sort of a rascal, that the peaceable, home-loving, bread-winning citizen can never conscientiously look on as a brother till he has beaten his sword into a plowshare and his spear into a pruning-hook." On the other hand, there was some truth in what the Postman (an old soldier) said in reply, — that the sword has to cut a way for us out of many a scrape into which our bread-winners get us when they drive their plow- shares into fallows that don't belong to them. Indeed, whilst our most peaceful citizens were prosperous chiefly 100 JACKANAPES by means of cotton, of sugar, and of the rise and fall of the money-market (not to speak of such salable matters as opium, firearms, and "black ivory"), disturb- ances were apt to arise in India, Africa, and other out- landish parts, where the fathers of our domestic race were making fortunes for their families. And for that matter, even on the Green, we did not wish the military to leave us in the lurch, so long as there was any fear that the French were coming. To let the Black Captain have little Miss Jessamine, however, was another matter. Her aunt would not hear of it; and then, to crown all, it appeared that the Cap- tain's father did not think the young lady good enough for his son. Never was any affair more clearly brought to a conclusion. But those were "trying times;" and one moonlight night, when the Gray Goose was sound asleep upon one leg, the Green was rudely shaken under her by the thud of a horse's feet. "Ga, ga!" said she, putting down the other leg and running away. By the time she returned to her place not a thing was to be seen or heard. The horse had passed like a shot. But next day there was hurrying and skurrying and cackling at a very early hour, all about the white house with the black beams, where Miss Jessamine lived. And when the sun was so low and the shadows so long on the grass that the Gray Goose felt ready to run away at the sight of her own neck, little Miss Jane Johnson and her "particular friend" Clarinda sat un- der the big oak-tree on the Green, and Jane pinched Clarinda's little finger till she found that she could keep 101 MODERN STORIES a secret, and then she told her in confidence that she had heard from Nurse and Jemima that Miss Jessa- mine's niece had been a very naughty girl, and that thaf horrid wicked officer had come for her on his black horse and carried her right away. "Will she never come back?" asked Clarinda. "Oh, no!" said Jane decidedly. "Bony never brings people back." "Not never no more?" sobbed Clarinda, for she was weak-minded, and could not bear to think that Bony never, never let naughty people go home again. Next day Jane had heard more. "He has taken her to a Green." "A Goose Green?" asked Clarinda. "No. A Gretna Green. Don't ask so many ques- tions, child," said Jane, who, having no more to tell, gave herself airs. Jane was wrong on one point. Miss Jessamine's niece did come back, and she and her husband were forgiven. The Gray Goose remembered it well; it was Michaelmas-tide, the Michaelmas before the Mich- aelmas before the Michaelmas — but, ga, ga! What does the date matter? It was autumn, harvest time, and everybody was so busy prophesying and praying about the crops, that the young couple wandered through the lanes, and got blackberries for Miss Jessa- mine's celebrated crab and blackberry jam, and made guys of themselves with bryony wreaths, and not a soul troubled his head about them, except the children and the Postman. The children dogged the Black Captain's footsteps (his bubble reputation as an Ogre having 102 JACKANAPES burst), clamoring for a ride on the black mare. And the Postman would go somewhat out of his postal way to catch the Captain's dark eye, and show that he had not forgotten how to salute an officer. But they were "trying times." One afternoon the black mare was stepping gently up and down the grass, with her head at her master's shoulder, and as many children crowded on to her silky back as if she had been an elephant in a menagerie; and the next after- noon she carried him away, sword and sabretache clatter- ing war music at her side, and the old Postman waiting for them, rigid with salutation, at the four cross-roads. War and bad times! It was a hard winter; and the big Miss Jessamine and the little Miss Jessamine (but she was Mrs. Black Captain now) lived very eco- nomically, that they might help their poorer neighbors. They neither entertained nor went into company; but the young lady always went up the village as far as the George and Dragon, for air and exercise, when the London Mail came in. One day (it was a day in the following June) it came in earlier than usual, and the young lady was not there to meet it. But a crowd soon gathered round the George and Dragon, gaping to see the Mail Coach dressed with flowers and oak-leaves, and the guard wearing a laurel wreath over and above his royal livery. The ribbons that decked the horses were stained and flecked with the warmth and foam of the pace at which they had come, for they had pressed on with the news of Victory. Miss Jessamine was sitting with her niece under the 103 MODERN STORIES oak tree on the Green, when the Postman put a news- paper silently into her hand. Her niece turned quickly. "Is there news ?" "Don't agitate yourself, my dear," said her aunt. "I will read it aloud, and then we can enjoy it to- gether; a far more comfortable method, my love, than when you go up the village, and come home out of breath, having snatched half the news as you run." "I am all attention, dear aunt," said the little lady, clasping her hands tightly on her lap. Then Miss Jessamine read aloud, — she was proud of her reading, — and the old soldier stood at attention behind her, with such a blending of pride and pity on his face as it was strange to see. "Downing Street, " June 22, 1815, 1 A. M." "That's one in the morning," gasped the Postman; "beg your pardon, mum." But though he apologized, he could not refrain from echoing here and there a weighty word: "Glorious victory " — "Two hundred pieces of artillery " — "Im- mense quantity of ammunition " — and so forth. "The loss of the British Army upon this occasion has unfortunately been most severe. It had not been possible to make out a return of the killed and wounded when Major Percy left headquarters. The names of the officers killed and wounded, as far as they can be collected, are annexed. "I have the honor — " / 104 JACKANAPES "The list, aunt! Read the list!" "My love — my darling — let us go in and " — "No. Now! now!" To one thing the supremely afflicted are entitled in their sorrow, — to be obeyed ; and yet it is the last kind- ness that people commonly will do them. But Miss Jessamine did. Steadying her voice, as best she might, she read on; and the old soldier stood bareheaded to hear that first Roll of the Dead at Waterloo, which began with the Duke of Brunswick and ended with Ensign Brown. Five-and-thirty British captains fell asleep that day on the Bed of Honor, and the Black Captain slept among them. There are killed and wounded by war, of whom no returns reach Downing Street. Three days later, the Captain's wife had joined him, and Miss Jessamine was kneeling by the cradle of their orphan son, a purple-red morsel of humanity, with conspicuously golden hair. "Will he live, Doctor?" "Live? Bless my soul, ma'am! Look at him! The young Jackanapes!" II And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old Nurse. Longfellow. The Gray Goose remembered quite well the year that Jackanapes began to walk, for it was the year that the speckled hen for the first time in all her motherly life got out of patience when she was sitting. She had been 105 MODERN STORIES rather proud of the eggs, — they were unusually large, — but she never felt quite comfortable on them; and whether it was because she used to get cramp and go off the nest, or because the season was bad, or what, she never could tell ; but every egg was addled but one, and the one that did hatch gave her more trouble than any chick she had ever reared. It was a fine, downy, bright yellow little thing, but it had a monstrous big nose and feet, and such an un- gainly walk as she knew no other instance of in her well-bred and high-stepping family. And as to behav- ior, it was not that it was either quarrelsome or moping, but simply unlike the rest. When the other chicks hopped and cheeped on the Green about their mother's feet, this solitary yellow brat went waddling off on its own responsibility, and do or cluck what the speckled hen would, it went to play in the Pond. It was off one day as usual, and the hen was fussing and fuming after it, when the Postman, going to deliver a letter at Miss Jessamine's door, was nearly knocked over by the good lady herself, who, bursting out of the house with her cap just off and her bonnet just not on, fell into his arms, crying, — "Baby! Baby! Jackanapes! Jackanapes!" If the Postman loved anything on earth, he loved the Captain's yellow-haired child; so, propping Miss Jessamine against her own doorpost, he followed the direction of her trembling fingers and made for the Green. Jackanapes had had the start of the Postman by nearly ten minutes. The world — the round, green 106 JACKANAPES world with an oak tree on it — was just becoming very interesting to him. He had tried, vigorously but in- effectually, to mount a passing pig the last time he was taken out walking; but then he was encumbered with a nurse. Now he was his own master, and might, by courage and energy, become the master of that delight- ful downy, dumpy, yellow thing that was bobbing along over the green grass in front of him. Forward ! Charge ! He aimed well, and grabbed it, but only to feel the delicious downiness and dumpiness slipping through his fingers as he fell upon his face. "Quack!" said the yellow thing, and wabbled off sideways. It was this oblique movement that enabled Jackanapes to come up with it, for it was bound for the Pond, and there- fore obliged to come back into line. He failed again from top-heaviness, and his prey escaped sideways as before, and, as before, lost ground in getting back to the direct road to the Pond. And at the Pond the Postman found them both, — one yellow thing rocking safely on the ripples that lie beyond duck- weed, and the other washing his drag- gled frock with tears because he too had tried to sit upon the Pond and it would n't hold him. Ill If studious, copy fair what time hath blurred, Redeem truth from his jaws; if soldier, Chase brave employments with a naked sword Throughout the world. Fool not; for all may have, If they dare try, a glorious life, or grave. 107 MODERN STORIES In brief, acquit thee bravely-* play the man. Look not on pleasures as they come, but go. Defer not the least virtue : life's poor span Make not an ell, by trifling in thy woe. If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains. If well : the pain doth fade, the joy remains. George Herbert. Young Mrs. Johnson, who was a mother of many, hardly knew which to pity more, — Miss Jessamine for having her little ways and her antimacassars rum- pled by young Jackanapes, or the boy himself for be- ing brought up by an old maid. Oddly enough she would probably have pitied neither, had Jackanapes been a girl. (One is so apt to think that what works smoothest, works to the highest ends, having no patience for the results of friction.) That Father in God who bade the young men to be pure and the maidens brave, greatly disturbed a member of his congregation, who thought that the great preacher had made a slip of the tongue. "That the girls should have purity, and the boys courage, is what you would say, good Father?" "Nature has done that," was the reply; "I meant what I said." In good sooth, a young maid is all the better for learning some robuster virtues than maidenliness and not to move the antimacassars; and the robuster vir- tues require some fresh air and freedom. As, on the other hand, Jackanapes (who had a boy's full share of the little beast and the young monkey in his natural composition) was none the worse, at his tender years, for learning some maidenliness, — so far as maiden- 108 JACKANAPES liness means decency, pity, unselfishness, and pretty behavior. And it is due to him to say that he was an obedient boy, and a boy whose word could be depended on, long before his grandfather the General came to live at the Green. He was obedient; that is, he did what his great-aunt told him. But — oh, dear! oh, dear! — the pranks he played, which it had never entered into her head to forbid ! It was when he had just been put into skeletons (frocks never suited him) that he became very friendly with Master Tony Johnson, a younger brother of the young gentleman who sat in the puddle on purpose. Tony was not enterprising, and Jackanapes led him by the nose. One summer's evening they were out late, and Miss Jessamine was becoming anxious, when Jack- anapes presented himself with a ghastly face all be- smirched with tears. He was unusually subdued. "I'm afraid," he sobbed, — "if you please, I'm very much afraid that Tony Johnson's dying in the churchyard." Miss Jessamine was just beginning to be distracted, when she smelt Jackanapes. "You naughty, naughty boys! Do you mean to tell me that you 've been smoking ? " "Not pipes," urged Jackanapes; "upon my honor, aunty, not pipes. Only cigars like Mr. Johnson's! and only made of brown paper with a very, very little to- bacco from the shop inside them." Whereupon Miss Jessamine sent a servant to the 109 MODERN STORIES churchyard, who found Tony Johnson lying on a tomb- stone, very sick, and having ceased to entertain any hopes of his own recovery. If it could be possible that any "unpleasantness" could arise between two such amiable neighbors as Miss Jessamine and Mrs. Johnson, and if the still more incredible paradox can be that ladies may differ over a point on which they are agreed, that point was the admitted fact that Tony Johnson was "delicate;" and the difference lay chiefly in this: Mrs. Johnson said that Tony was delicate, — meaning that he was more finely strung, more sensitive, a properer subject for pam- pering and petting, than Jackanapes, and that, con- sequently, Jackanapes was to blame for leading Tony into scrapes which resulted in his being chilled, fright- ened, or (most frequently) sick. But when Miss Jessa- mine said that Tony Johnson was delicate, she meant that he was more puling, less manly, and less healthily brought up than Jackanapes, who, when they got into mischief together, was certainly not to blame because his friend could not get wet, sit a kicking donkey, ride in the giddy-go-round, bear the noise of a cracker, or smoke brown paper with impunity, as he could. Not that there was ever the slightest quarrel between the ladies. It never even came near it, except the day after Tony had been so very sick with riding Bucephalus in the giddy-go-round. Mrs. Johnson had explained to Miss Jessamine that the reason Tony was so easily upset was the unusual sensitiveness (as a doctor had explained it to her) of the nervous centres in her family ■ — "Fiddlestick!" So Mrs. Johnson understood Miss 110 JACKANAPES Jessamine to say; but it appeared that she only said " Treaclestick ! " — which is quite another thing, and of which Tony was undoubtedly fond. It was at the Fair that Tony was made ill by riding on Bucephalus. Once a year the Goose Green became the scene of a carnival. First of all, carts and caravans were rumbling up all along, day and night. Jackanapes could hear them as he lay in bed, and could hardly sleep for speculating what booths and whirligigs he should find fairly established when he and his dog Spit- fire went out after breakfast. As a matter of fact, he seldom had to wait so long for news of the Fair. The Postman knew the window out of which Jackanapes's yellow head would come, and was ready with his report. "Royal Theayter, Master Jackanapes, in the old place, but be careful o' them seats, sir; they're ricketier than ever. Two sweets and a ginger beer under the oak tree, and the Flying Boats is just a-coming along the road." No doubt it was partly because he had already suf- fered severely in the Flying Boats that Tony collapsed so quickly in the giddy-go-round. He only mounted Bucephalus (who was spotted, and had no tail) be- cause Jackanapes urged him, and held out the ingen- ious hope that the round-and-round feeling would very likely cure the up-and-down sensation. It did not, however, and Tony tumbled off during the first revo- lution. Jackanapes was not absolutely free from qualms; but having once mounted the Black Prince, he stuck to him as a horseman should. During his first round 111 MODERN STORIES he waved his hat, and observed with some concern that the Black Prince had lost an ear since last Fair; at the second, he looked a little pale, but sat upright, though somewhat unnecessarily rigid ; at the third round he shut his eyes. During the fourth his hat fell off, and he clasped his horse's neck. By the fifth he had laid his yellow head against the Black Prince's mane, and so clung anyhow till the hobby-horses stopped, when the proprietor assisted him to alight, and he sat down rather suddenly and said he had enjoyed it very much. The Gray Goose always ran away at the first ap- proach of the caravans, and never came back to the Green till there was nothing left of the Fair but foot- marks and oyster-shells. Running away was her pet principle; the only system, she maintained, by which you can live long and easily and lose nothing. If you run away when you see danger, you can come back when all is safe. Run quickly, return slowly, hold your head high, and gabble as loud as you can, and you'll preserve the respect of the Goose Green to a peaceful old age. Why should you struggle and get hurt, if you can lower your head and not swerve, and not lose a feather? Why in the world should any one spoil the pleasure of life, or risk his skin, if he can help it ? "'What's the use?' Said the Goose." Before answering which one might have to consider what world, which life, and whether one's skin were a goose skin; but the Gray Goose's head would never have held all that. 112 JACKANAPES Grass soon grows over footprints, and the village children took the oyster-shells to trim their gardens with; but the year after Tony rode Bucephalus there lingered another relic of Fair time in which Jackanapes was deeply interested. "The Green" proper was ori- ginally only part of a straggling common, which in its turn merged into some wilder waste land where Gyp- sies sometimes squatted if the authorities would allow them, especially after the annual Fair. And it was after the Fair that Jackanapes, out rambling by himself, was knocked over by the Gypsy's son riding the Gypsy's red-haired pony at breakneck pace across the common. Jackanapes got up and shook himself, none the worse except for being heels over head in love with the red-haired pony. What a rate he went at ! How he spurned the ground with his nimble feet! How his red coat shone in the sunshine! And what bright eyes peeped out of his dark forelock as it was blown by the wind ! The Gypsy boy had had a fright, and he was willing enough to reward Jackanapes for not having been hurt, by consenting to let him have a ride. "Do you mean to kill the little fine gentleman, and swing us all on the gibbet, you rascal ? " screamed the Gypsy mother, who came up just as Jackanapes and the pony set off. "He would get on," replied her son. "It'll not kill him. He'll fall on his yellow head, and it's as tough as a cocoanut." But Jackanapes did not fall. He stuck to the red- haired pony as he had stuck to the hobby-horse; but, 113 MODERN STORIES oh, how different the delight of this wild gallop with flesh and blood ! Just as his legs were beginning to feel as if he did not feel them, the Gypsy boy cried, " Lollo ! " Round went the pony so unceremoniously that with as little ceremony Jackanapes clung to his neck; and he did not properly recover himself before Lollo stopped with a jerk at the place where they had started. "Is his name Lollo?" asked Jackanapes, his hand lingering in the wiry mane. "Yes." "What does Lollo mean?" "Red." " Is Lollo your pony ? " "No. My father's." And the Gypsy boy led Lollo away. At the first opportunity Jackanapes stole away again to the common. This time he saw the Gypsy father, smoking a dirty pipe. " Lollo is your pony, is n't he ? " said Jackanapes. "Yes." "He's a very nice one." "He's a racer." " You don't want to sell him, do you ? " "Fifteen pounds," said the Gypsy father; and Jack- anapes sighed and went home again. That very after- noon he and Tony rode the two donkeys; and Tony managed to get thrown, and even Jackanapes's donkey kicked. But it was jolting, clumsy work after the elas- tic swiftness and the dainty mischief of the red-haired pony. A few days later, Miss Jessamine spoke very seri- 114 JACKANAPES ously to Jackanapes. She was a good deal agitated as she told him that his grandfather, the General, was com- ing to the Green, and that he must be on his very best behavior during the visit. If it had been feasible to leave off calling him Jackanapes and to get used to his baptismal name of Theodore before the day after to- morrow (when the General was due), it would have been satisfactory. But Miss Jessamine feared it would be impossible in practice, and she had scruples about it on principle. It would not seem quite truthful, al- though she had always most fully intended that he should be called Theodore when he had outgrown the ridiculous appropriateness of his nickname. The fact was that he had not outgrown it, but he must take care to remember who was meant when his grandfather said Theodore. Indeed, for that matter, he must take care all along. : 'You are apt to be giddy, Jackanapes," said Miss Jessamine. "Yes, aunt," said Jackanapes, thinking of the hobby- horses. "You are a good boy, Jackanapes. Thank God, I can tell your grandfather that. An obedient boy, an honorable boy, and a kind-hearted boy. But you are — in short, you are a Boy, Jackanapes. And I hope," added Miss Jessamine, desperate with the result of experience, "that the General knows that Boys will be Boys." What mischief could be foreseen, Jackanapes pro- mised to guard against. He was to keep his clothes and his hands clean, to look over his catechism, not 115 MODERN STORIES to put sticky things in his pockets, to keep that hair of his smooth ("It's the wind that blows it, aunty," said Jackanapes. — " I '11 send by the coach for some bear's- grease," said Miss Jessamine, tying a knot in her pocket handkerchief), — not to burst in at the parlor door, not to talk at the top of his voice, not to crumple his Sunday frill, and to sit quite quiet during the ser- mon, to be sure to say " sir" to the General, to be care- ful about rubbing his shoes on the door-mat, and to bring his lesson books to his aunt at once that she might iron down the dogs'-ears. The General arrived; and for the first day all went well, except that Jackanapes's hair was as wild as usual, for the hair-dresser had no bear's-grease left. He began to feel more at ease with his grandfather, and disposed to talk confidentially with him, as he did with the Postman. All that the General felt, it would take too long to tell; but the result was the same. He was disposed to talk confidentially with Jackanapes. "Mons'ous pretty place, this," he said, looking out of the lattice on to the Green, where the grass was vivid with sunset and the shadows were long and peaceful. "You should see it in Fair week, sir," said Jack- anapes, shaking his yellow mop, and leaning back in his one of the two Chippendale armchairs in which they sat. "A fine time that, eh?" said the General, with a twinkle in his left eye (the other was glass). Jackanapes shook his hair once more. "I enjoyed this last one the best of all," he said. "I'd so much money." 116 JACKANAPES "By George, it's not a common complaint in these bad times. How much had ye?" "I'd two shillings. A new shilling aunty gave me, and elevenpence I had saved up, and a penny from the Postman, — sir!" added Jackanapes with a jerk, hav- ing forgotten it. "And how did ye spend it, — sir?" inquired the General. Jackanapes spread his ten fingers on the arms of his chair, and shut his eyes that he might count the more conscientiously. "Watch-stand for aunty, threepence. Trumpet for myself, twopence; that's fivepence. Gingernuts for Tony, twopence, and a mug with a Grenadier on for the Postman, fourpence; that's elevenpence. Shooting- gallery a penny; that's a shilling. Giddy-go-round, a penny; that's one and a penny. Treating Tony, one and twopence. Flying Boats (Tony paid for himself), a penny, one and threepence. Shooting-gallery again, one and fourpence; Fat Woman a penny, one and five- pence. Giddy-go-round again, one and sixpence. Shooting-gallery, one and sevenpence. Treating Tony, and then he would n't shoot, so I did, one and eight- pence. Living Skeleton, a penny — no, Tony treated me, the Living Skeleton does n't count. Skittles, a penny, one and ninepence. Mermaid (but when we got inside she was dead), a penny, one and tenpence. Theatre, a penny (Priscilla Partington, or the Green Lane Murder. A beautiful young lady, sir, with pink cheeks and a real pistol); that's one and elevenpence. Ginger beer* a penny (I was so thirsty!), two shillings 117 MODERN STORIES And then the shooting-gallery man gave me a turn for nothing, because, he said, I was a real gentleman, and spent my money like a man." "So you do, sir, so you do!" cried the General. " Egad, sir, you spent it like a prince. And now I sup- pose you've not a penny in your pocket?" "Yes, I have," said Jackanapes. "Two pennies. They are saving up." And Jackanapes jingled them with his hand. "You don't want money except at Fair times, I suppose?" said the General. Jackanapes shook his mop. "If I could have as much as I want, I should know what to buy," said he. " And how much do you want, if you could get it ? " " Wait a minute, sir, till I think what twopence from fifteen pounds leaves. Two from nothing you can't, but borrow twelve. Two from twelve, ten, and carry one. Please remember ten, sir, when I ask you. One from nothing you can't, borrow twenty. One from twenty nineteen, and carry one. One from fifteen, four- teen. Fourteen pounds nineteen and — what did I tell you to remember ? " "Ten," said the General. "Fourteen pounds nineteen shillings and tenpence, then, is what I want," said Jackanapes. " God bless my soul ! what for ? " "To buy Lollo with. Lollo means red, sir. The Gypsy's red-haired pony, sir. Oh, he is beautiful ! You should see his coat in the sunshine! You should see his mane ! You should see his tail ! Such little feet, sir, 118 JACKANAPES and they go like lightning! Such a dear face, too, and eyes like a mouse! But he's a racer, and the Gypsy wants fifteen pounds for him." " If he 's a racer you could n't ride him. Could you ? " "No — o, sir, but I can stick to him. I did the other day." " The dooce you did ! Well, I 'm fond of riding my- self; and if the beast is as good as you say, he might suit me." " You 're too tall for Lollo, I think," said Jackanapes, measuring his grandfather with his eye. "I can double up my legs, I suppose. We'll have a look at him to-morrow." " Don't you weigh a good deal ? " asked Jackanapes. "Chiefly waistcoats," said the General, slapping the breast of his military frock coat. "We'll have the little racer on the Green the first thing in the morning. Glad you mentioned it, grandson; glad you mentioned it." The General was as good as his word. Next morn- ing the Gypsy and Lollo, Miss Jessamine, Jackanapes and his grandfather, and his dog Spitfire, were all gathered at one end of the Green in a group, which so aroused the innocent curiosity of Mrs. Johnson, as she saw it from one of her upper windows, that she and the children took their early promenade rather earlier than usual. The General talked to the Gypsy, and Jacka- napes fondled Lollo's mane, and did not know whether he should be more glad or miserable if his grandfather bought him. " Jackanapes ! " 119 MODERN STORIES "Yes, sir!" "I've bought Lollo, but I believe you were right. He hardly stands high enough for me. If you can ride him to the other end of the Green, I'll give him to you." How Jackanapes tumbled on to Lollo's back he never knew. He had just gathered up the reins when the Gypsy father took him by the arm. "If you want to make Lollo go fast, my little gen- tleman" — "I can make him go!" said Jackanapes; and draw- ing from his pocket the trumpet he had bought in the Fair, he blew a blast both loud and shrill. Away went Lollo, and away went Jackanapes's hat. His golden hair flew out, an aureole from which his cheeks shone red and distended with trumpeting. Away went Spitfire, mad with the rapture of the race and the wind in his silky ears. Away went the geese, the cocks, the hens, and the whole family of Johnson. Lucy clung to her mamma, Jane saved Emily by the gathers of her gown, and Tony saved himself by a somersault. The Gray Goose was just returning when Jacka- napes and Lollo rode back, Spitfire panting behind. " Good, my little gentleman, good ! " said the Gypsy. "You were born to the saddle. You've the flat thigh, the strong knee, the wiry back, and the light caressing hand; all you want is to learn the whisper. Come here!" "What was that dirty fellow talking about, grand- son?" asked the General. 120 JACKANAPES "I can't tell you, sir. It's a secret." The two were sitting in the window again, in the Chippendale armchairs, the General devouring every line of his grandson's face, with strange spasms crossing his own. " You must love your aunt very much, Jackanapes ? " "I do, sir," said Jackanapes warmly. "And whom do you love next best to your aunt?" The ties of blood were pressing very strongly on the General himself, and perhaps he thought of Lollo. But love is not bought in a day, even with fourteen pounds, nineteen shillings and tenpence. Jackanapes answered quite readily, "The Postman." "Why the Postman?" "He knew my father," saic. Jackanapes, "and he tells me about him and about his black mare. My fa- ther was a soldier, a brave soldier. He died at Waterloo. When I grow up I want to be a soldier, too." "So you shall, my boy; so you shall " " Thank you, grandfather. Aunty does n't want me to be a soldier, for fear of being killed." " Bless my life ! Would she have you get into a feather- bed and stay there? Why, you might be killed by a thunderbolt if you were a butter merchant ! " " So I might. I shall tell her so. What a funny fel- low you are, sir! I say, do you think my father knew the Gypsy's secret ? The Postman says he used to whis- per to his black mare." "Your father was taught to ride, as a child, by one of those horsemen of the East who swoop and dart and wheel about a plain like swallows in autumn. Grand- 121 MODERN STORIES son! love me a little, too. I can tell you more about your father than the Postman can." "I do love you," said Jackanapes. "Before you came I was frightened. I 'd no notion you were so nice." "Love me always, boy, whatever I do or leave un- done. And — God help me ! — whatever you do or leave undone, I'll love you. There shall never be a cloud between us for a day; no, sir, not for an hour. We 're imperfect enough, all of us — we need n't be so bitter; and life is uncertain enough at its safest — we need n't waste its opportunities. God bless my soul! Here sit I, after a dozen battles and some of the worst climates in the world, and by yonder lych gate lies your mother, who did n't move five miles, I suppose, from your aunt's apron-strings, — dead in her teens; my golden-haired daughter, whom I never saw!" Jackanapes was terribly troubled. "Don't cry, grandfather," he pleaded, his own blue eyes round with tears. " I will love you very much, and I will try to be very good. But I should like to be a soldier." "You shall, my boy; you shall. You've more claims for a commission than you know of. Cavalry, I sup- pose; eh, ye young Jackanapes? Well, well; if you live to be an honor to your country, this old heart shall grow young again with pride for you; and if you die in the service of your country — egad, sir, it can but break for ye!" And beating the region which he said was all waist- coats, as if they stifled him, the old man got up and strode out on to the Green. 122 JACKANAPES IV Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. — John xv, 13. Twenty and odd years later the Gray Goose was still alive, and in full possession of her faculties, such as they were. She lived slowly and carefully, and she lived long. So did Miss Jessamine; but the General was dead. He had lived on the Green for many years, during which he and the Postman saluted each other with a punctiliousness that it almost drilled one to witness. He would have completely spoiled Jackanapes if Miss Jessamine's conscience would have let him; otherwise he somewhat dragooned his neighbors, and was as positive about parish matters as a ratepayer about the army; — a stormy- tempered, tender-hearted soldier, irritable with the suffering of the wounds of which he never spoke, whom all the village followed to his grave with tears. The General's death was a great shock to Miss Jes- samine, and her nephew stayed with her for some little time after the funeral. Then he was obliged to join his regiment, which was ordered abroad. One effect of the conquest which the General had gained over the affections of the village was a consid- erable abatement of the popular prejudice against " the military." Indeed, the village was now somewhat im- portantly represented in the army. There was the Gen- eral himself, and the Postman, and the Black Captain's 123 MODERN STORIES tablet in the church, and Jackanapes, and Tony John- son, and a Trumpeter. Tony Johnson had no more natural taste for fighting than for riding, but he was as devoted as ever to Jack- anapes. And that was how it came about that Mr. Johnson bought him a commission in the same cavalry regiment that the General's grandson (whose commis- sion had been given him by the Iron Duke) was in; and that he was quite content to be the butt of the mess where Jackanapes was the hero; and that when Jack- anapes wrote home to Miss Jessamine, Tony wrote with the same purpose to his mother, — namely, to demand her congratulations that they were on active service at last, and were ordered to the front. And he added a postscript, to the effect that she could have no idea how popular Jackanapes was, nor how splendidly he rode the wonderful red charger which he had named after his old friend Lollo. "Sound 'Retire!'" A Boy Trumpeter, grave with the weight of respon- sibilities and accoutrements beyond his years, and stained so that his own mother would not have known him, with the sweat and dust of battle, did as he was bid; and then, pushing his trumpet pettishly aside, adjusted his weary legs for the hundredth time to the horse which was a world too big for him and mutter- ing, " ' T ain't a pretty tune," tried to see something of this his first engagement before it came to an end. Being literally in the thick of it, he could hardly have seen less or known less of what happened in that par- 124 JACKANAPES ticular skirmish if he had been at home in England: for many good reasons, — including dust and smoke, and that what attention he dared distract from his com- manding officer was pretty well absorbed by keeping his hard-mouthed troop-horse in hand, under pain of execration by his neighbors in the melee. By and by, when the newspapers came out, if he could get a look at one before it was thumbed to bits, he would learn that the enemy had appeared from ambush in over- whelming numbers, and that orders had been given to fall back, which was done slowly and in good order, the men fighting as they retired. Born and bred on the Goose Green, the youngest of Mr. Johnson's gardener's numerous offspring, the boy had given his family "no peace" till they let him " go for a soldier " with Master Tony and Master Jack- anapes. They consented at last, with more tears than they shed when an elder son was sent to jail for poach- ing; and the boy was perfectly happy in his life, and full of esprit de corps. It was this which had been wounded by having to sound retreat for "the young gentlemen's regiment," the first time he served with it before the enemy; and he was also harassed by having completely lost sight of Master Tony. There had been some hard fighting before the backward movement began, and he had caught sight of him once, but not since. On the other hand, all the pulses of his village pride had been stirred by one or two visions of Master Jackanapes whirling about on his wonderful horse. He had been easy to distinguish, since an eccentric blow had bared his head without hurting it; for his 125 MODERN STORIES close golden mop of hair gleamed in the hot sunshine as brightly as the steel of the sword flashing round it. Of the missiles that fell pretty thickly, the Boy Trum- peter did not take much notice. First, one can't attend to everything, and his hands were full; secondly, one gets used to anything; thirdly, experience soon teaches one, in spite of proverbs, how very few bullets find their billet. Far more unnerving is the mere suspicion of fear or even of anxiety in the human mass around you. The Boy was beginning to wonder if there were any dark reason for the increasing pressure, and whether they would be allowed to move back more quickly, when the smoke in front lifted for a moment, and he could see the plain, and the enemy's line some two hundred yards away. And across the plain between them, he saw Master Jackanapes galloping along at the top of Lollo's speed, their faces to the enemy, his golden head at Lollo's ear. But at this moment noise and smoke seemed to burst out on every side; the officer shouted to him to sound "Retire!" and between trumpeting and bumping about on his horse, he saw and heard no more of the incidents of his first battle. Tony Johnson was always unlucky with horses, from the days of the giddy-go-round onwards. On this day — of all days in the year — his own horse was on the sick list, and he had to ride an inferior, ill-condi- tioned beast, and fell off that, at the very moment when it was a matter of life and death to be able to ride away. The horse fell on him, but struggled up again, and Tony managed to keep hold of it. It was in trying to remount that he discovered, by helplessness and anguish, 126 JACKANAPES that one of his legs was crushed and broken, and that no feat of which he was master would get him into the saddle. Not able even to stand alone, awkwardly, agonizingly, unable to mount his restive horse, his life was yet so strong within him! And on one side of him rolled the dust and cloud-smoke of his advancing foes, and on the other, that which covered his retreating friends. He turned one piteous gaze after them, with a bit- ter twinge, not of reproach, but of loneliness; and then, dragging himself up by the side of his horse, he turned the other way and drew out his pistol, and waited for the end. Whether he waited seconds or minutes he never knew, before some one gripped him by the arm. "Jackanapes! God bless you! It's my left leg. If you could get me on " — It was like Tony's luck that his pistol went off at his horse's tail, and made it plunge; but Jackanapes threw him across the saddle. "Hold on anyhow, and stick your spur in. I'll lead him. Keep your head down; they're firing high." And Jackanapes laid his head down — to Lollo's ear. It was when they were fairly off that a sudden up- springing of the enemy in all directions had made it necessary to change the gradual retirement of our force into as rapid a retreat as possible. And when Jacka- napes became aware of this, and felt the lagging and swerving of Tony's horse, he began to wish he had thrown his friend across his own saddle and left their lives to Lollo. When Tony became aware of it, several things came 127 MODERN STORIES into his head : First, that the dangers of their ride for life were now more than doubled ; second, that if Jack- anapes and Lollo were not burdened with him they would undoubtedly escape; third, that Jackanapes's life was infinitely valuable, and his — Tony's — was not; fourth, that this, if he could seize it, was the supremest of all the moments in which he had tried to assume the virtues which Jackanapes had by nature; and that if he could be courageous and unselfish now — He caught at his own reins and spoke very loud, — "Jackanapes! It won't do. You and Lollo must go on. Tell the fellows I gave you back to them with all my heart. Jackanapes, if you love me, leave me ! " There was a daffodil light over the evening sky in front of them, and it shone strangely on Jackanapes's hair and face. He turned with an odd look in his eyes that a vainer man than Tony Johnson might have taken for brotherly pride. Then he shook his mop, and laughed at him. " Leave you ? To save my skin ? No, Tony, not to save my soul!" V Mr. Valiant summoned. His Will. His Last Words. Then said he, "I am going to my Fathers. . . . My Sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my Courage and Skill to him that can get it." . . . And as he went down deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy Victory?" So he passed over, and all the Trumpets sounded for him on the other side. Bunyan : Pilgrim's Progress. Coming out of a hospital tent, at headquarters, the surgeon caromed against, and rebounded from, an- 128 JACKANAPES other officer, — a sallow man, not young, with a face worn more by ungentle experiences than by age, with weary eyes that kept their own counsel, iron-gray hair, and a mustache that was as if a raven had laid its wing across his lips and sealed them. "Well?" " Beg pardon, Major. Did n't see you. Oh, com- pound fracture and bruises. But it's all right; he'll pull through." "Thank God." It was probably an involuntary expression ; for prayer and praise were not much in the Major's line, as a jerk of the surgeon's head would have betrayed to an observer. He was a bright little man, with his feelings showing all over him, but with gallantry and contempt of death enough for both sides of his pro- fession; who took a cool head, a white handkerchief, and a case of instruments, where other men went hot- blooded with weapons, and who was the biggest gos- sip, male or female, of the regiment. Not even the Major's taciturnity daunted him. " Did n't think he 'd as much pluck about him as he has. He '11 do all right if he does n't fret himself into a fever about poor Jackanapes." "Whom are you talking about?" asked the Major hoarsely. "Young Johnson. He" — " What about Jackanapes ? " "Don't you know? Sad business. Rode back for Johnson and brought him in; but, monstrous ill luck, hit as they rode. Left lung" — 129 MODERN STORIES "Will he recover?" " No. Sad business. What a frame — what limbs — what health — and what good looks ! Finest young fellow " — "Where is he?" "In his own tent," said the surgeon sadly. The Major wheeled and left him. " Can I do anything else for you ? " "Nothing, thank you. Except — Major! I wish I could get you to appreciate Johnson." "This is not an easy moment, Jackanapes." " Let me tell you, sir, — he never will, — that if he could have driven me from him, he would be lying yon- der at this moment, and I should be safe and sound." The Major laid his hand over his mouth, as if to keep back a wish he would have been ashamed to utter. "I've known old Tony from a child. He's a fool on impulse, a good man and a gentleman in principle. And he acts on principle, which it 's not every — Some water, please! Thank you, sir. It's very hot, and yet one's feet get uncommonly cold. Oh, thank you, thank you. He's no fire-eater, but he has a trained conscience and a tender heart, and he '11 do his duty when a braver and more selfish man might fail you. But he wants en- couragement; and when I'm gone" — " He shall have encouragement. You have my word for it. Can I do nothing else ? " "Yes, Major. A favor." "Thank you, Jackanapes." 130 JACKANAPES " Be Lollo's master, and love him as well as you can- He 's used to it." " Would n't you rather Johnson had him ? " The blue eyes twinkled in spite of mortal pain. "Tony rides on principle, Major. His legs are bol- sters, and will be to the end of the chapter. I could n't insult dear Lollo; but if you don't care" — " While I live — which will be longer than I desire or deserve — Lollo shall want nothing but — you. I liave too little tenderness for — My dear boy, you 're faint. Can you spare me for a moment?" "No, stay— Major!" ""What? What?" "My head drifts so — if you would n't mind." "Yes! Yes!" "Say a prayer by me. Out loud, please; I am get- ting deaf." " My dearest Jackanapes — my dear boy " — " One of the Church Prayers — Parade Service, you know" — " I see. But the fact is — God forgive me, Jacka- napes ! — I 'm a very different sort of fellow from some of you youngsters. Look here, let me fetch" — But Jackanapes's hand was in his, and it would not let go. There was a brief and bitter silence. " 'Pon my soul, I can only remember the little one at the end." "Please," whispered Jackanapes. Pressed by the conviction that what little he could do it was his duty to do, the Major, kneeling, bared 131 MODERN STORIES his head, and spoke loudly, clearly, and very rever- ently, — "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ" — Jackanapes moved his left hand to his right one, which still held the Major's — "The love of God" — And with that — Jackanapes died. VI Und so ist der blaue Himmel grosser als jedes Gewolk darin, und dauerhafter dazu. 1 Jean Paul Richter. Jackanapes's death was sad news for the Goose Green, a sorrow just qualified by honorable pride in his gallantry and devotion. Only the Cobbler dissented; but that was his way. He said he saw nothing in it but foolhardiness and vainglory. They might both have been killed, as easy as not; and then where would ye have been ? A man's life was a man's life, and one life was as good as another. No one would catch him throwing his away. And, for that matter, Mrs. John- son could spare a child a great deal better than Miss Jessamine. But the parson preached Jackanapes's funeral ser- mon on the text, "Whosoever will save his life shall lose it, and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it;" and all the village went and wept to hear him. Nor did Miss Jessamine see her loss from the Cob- bler's point of view. On the contrary, Mrs. Johnson 1 "And so the blue sky is greater than any cloud therein, and more enduring too.' 5 132 JACKANAPES said she never to her dying day should forget how, when she went to condole with her, the old lady came forward, with gentlewomanly self-control, and kissed her, and thanked God that her dear nephew's effort had been blessed with success, and that this sad war had made no gap in her friend's large and happy home circle. "But she's a noble unselfish woman," sobbed Mrs. Johnson, "and she taught Jackanapes to be the same; and that's how it is that my Tony has been spared to me. And it must be sheer goodness in Miss Jessamine, for what can she know of a mother's feelings? And I'm sure most people seem to think that if you've a large family you don't know one from another any more than they do, and that a lot of children are like a lot of store apples, — if one's taken it won't be missed." Lollo, — the first Lollo, the Gypsy's Lollo, — very aged, draws Miss Jessamine's bath-chair slowly up and down the Goose Green in the sunshine. The ex-Postman walks beside him, which Lollo tol- erates to the level of his shoulder. If the Postman ad- vances any nearer to his head, Lollo quickens his pace; and were the Postman to persist in the injudicious at- tempt, there is, as Miss Jessamine says, no knowing what might happen. In the opinion of the Goose Green, Miss Jessamine has borne her troubles "wonderfully." Indeed, to-day, some of the less delicate and less intimate of those who see everything from the upper windows say (well, be- hind her back) that "the old lady seems quite lively with her military beaux again." 133 MODERN STORIES The meaning of this is, that Captain Johnson is lean- ing over one side of her chair, while by the other bends a brother officer who is staying with him, and who has manifested an extraordinary interest in Lollo. He bends lower and lower, and Miss Jessamine calls to the Postman to request Lollo to be kind enough to stop, while she is fumbling for something which always hangs by her side, and has got entangled with her spectacles. It is a twopenny trumpet, bought years ago in the village fair; and over it she and Captain Johnson tell, as best they can, between them, the story of ' Jacka- napes's ride across Goose Green ; and how he won Lollo — the Gypsy's Lollo — the racer Lollo — dear Lollo — faithful Lollo — Lollo, the never vanquished — Lollo, the tender servant of his old mistress. And Lollo's ears twitch at every mention of his name. Their hearer does not speak, but he never moves his eyes from the trumpet; and when the tale is told, he lifts Miss Jessamine's hand and presses his heavy black mustache in silence to her trembling fingers. The sun, setting gently to his rest, embroiders the sombre foliage of the oak tree with threads of gold. The Gray Goose is sensible of an atmosphere of repose, and puts up one leg for the night. The grass glows with a more vivid green, and, in answer to a ringing call from Tony, his sisters, fluttering over the daisies in pale- hued muslins, come out of their ever-open door, like pretty pigeons from a dovecote. And if the good gossips' eyes do not deceive them, all the Miss Johnsons and both the officers go wander- 134 JACKANAPES ing off into the lanes, where bryony wreaths still twine about the brambles. A sorrowful story, and ending badly? Nay, Jackanapes, for the end is not yet. A life wasted that might have been useful ? Men who have died for men, in all ages, forgive the thought ! There is a heritage of heroic example and noble ob- ligation, not reckoned in the Wealth of Nations, but essential to a nation's life; the contempt of which, in any people, may, not slowly, mean even its commercial fall. Very sweet are the uses of prosperity, the harvests of peace and progress, the fostering sunshine of health and happiness, and length of days in the land. But there be things, — oh, sons of what has deserved the name of Great Britain, forget it not ! " the good of" which and "the use of" which are beyond all cal- culation of worldly goods and earthly uses : things such as Love, and Honor, and the Soul of Man, which can- not be bought with a price, and which do not die with death. And they who would fain live happily ever after should not leave these things out of the lessons of their lives. A DOG OF FLANDERS By Louise de la Ramee (" Ouida ") I NELLO and Patrasche were left all alone in the world. They were friends in a friendship closer than bro- therhood. Nello was a little Ardennois, — Patrasche was a big Fleming. They were both of the same age by length of years, yet one was still young, and the other was already old. They had dwelt together almost all their days ; both were orphaned and destitute, and owed their lives to the same hand. It had been the beginning of the tie between them, their first bond of sympathy; and it had strengthened day by day, and had grown with their growth, firm and indissoluble, until they loved one another very greatly. Their home was a little hut on the edge of a little village, — a Flemish village a league from Antwerp, set amidst flat breadths of pasture and corn-lands, with long lines of poplars and of alders bending in the breeze on the edge of the great canal which ran through it. It had about a score of houses and homesteads, with shutters of bright green or sky-blue, and roofs rose-red or black and white, and walls whitewashed until they shone in the sun like snow. In the centre of the village stood a windmill, placed on a little moss-grown slope; 136 A DOG OF FLANDERS it was a landmark to all the level country round. It had once been painted scarlet, sails and all, but that had been in its infancy, half a century or more earlier, when it had ground wheat for the soldiers of Napoleon; and it was now a ruddy brown, tanned by wind and weather. It went queerly by fits and starts, as though rheumatic and stiff in the joints from age, but it served the whole neighborhood, which would have thought it almost as impious to carry grain elsewhere, as to attend any other religious service than the mass that was performed at the altar of the little old gray church, with its conical steeple, which stood opposite to it, and whose single bell rang morning, noon, and night with that strange, subdued, hollow sadness which every bell that hangs in the Low Countries seems to gain as an integral part of its melody. Within sound of the little melancholy clock, almost from their birth upward, they had dwelt together, Nello and Patrasche, in the little hut on the edge of the vil- lage, with the cathedral spire of Antwerp rising in the northeast, beyond the great green plain of seeding grass and spreading corn that stretched away from them like a tideless, changeless sea. It was the hut of a very old man, of a very poor man, — of old Jehan Daas, who in his time had been a soldier, and who re- membered the wars that had trampled the country as oxen tread down the furrows, and who had brought from his service nothing except a wound, which had made him a cripple. When old Jehan Daas had reached his full eighty, his daughter had died in the Ardennes, hard by Stave- 137 MODERN STORIES lot, and had left him in legacy her two-year-old son, The old man could ill contrive to support himself, but he took up the additional burden uncomplainingly, and it soon became welcome and precious to him. Little Nello — which was but a pet diminutive for Nicolas — throve with him, and the old man and the little chiJd lived in the poor little hut contentedly. It was a very humble little mud-hut indeed, but it was clean and white as a sea-shell, and stood in a small plot of garden ground that yielded beans and herbs and pumpkins. They were very poor, terribly poor, — many a day they had nothing at all to eat. They never by any chance had enough; to have had enough to eat would have been to have reached paradise at once. But the old man was very gentle and good to the boy, and the boy was a beautiful, innocent, truthful, tender-natured creature; and they were happy on a crust and a few leaves of cabbage, and asked no more of earth or Heaven ; save indeed that Patrasche should be always with them, since without Patrasche where would they have been ? For Patrasche was their alpha and omega; their treasury and granary; their store of gold and wand of wealth; their bread-winner and minister; their only friend and comforter. Patrasche dead or gone from them, they must have laid themselves down and died likewise. Patrasche was body, brains, hands, head, and feet to both of them: Patrasche was their very life, their very soul. For Jehan Daas was old and a cripple, and Nello was but a child; and Patrasche was their dog. A dog of Flanders, — yellow of hide, large of head and limb, with wolf -like ears that stood erect, and legs 138 A DOG OF FLANDERS bowed and feet widened in the muscular development wrought in his breed by many generations of hard ser- vice: Patrasche came of a race which had toiled hard and cruelly from sire to son in Flanders many a century, — slaves of slaves, dogs of the people, beasts of the shafts and the harness, creatures that lived straining their sinews in the gall of the cart, and died breaking their hearts on the flints of the streets. Patrasche had been born of parents who had labored hard all their days over the sharp-set stones of the various cities and the long, shadowless, weary roads of the two Flanders and of Brabant. He had been born to no other heritage than those of pain and of toil. He had been fed on curses and baptized with blows. Why not ? It was a Christian country, and Patrasche was but a dog. Before he was fully grown he had known the bitter gall of the cart and the collar. Before he had entered his thirteenth month he had become the property of a hardware dealer, who was accustomed to wander over the land north and south, from the blue sea to the green mountains. They sold him for a small price, because he was so young. This man was a drunkard and a brute. The life of Patrasche was a life of hell. To deal the tortures of hell on the animal creation is a way which the Christians have of showing their belief in it. His purchaser was a sullen, ill-living, brutal Brabantois, who heaped his cart full with pots and pans and flagons and buckets, and other wares of crockery and brass and tin, and left Patrasche to draw the load as best he might, whilst he himself lounged idly by the side in fat and sluggish 139 MODERN STORIES ease, smoking his black pipe and stopping at every wine-shop or cafe on the road. Happily for Patrasche — or unhappily — he was very strong: he came of an iron race, long born and bred to such cruel travail; so that he did not die, but managed to drag on a wretched existence under the brutal burdens, the scarifying lashes, the hunger, the thirst, the blows, the curses, and the exhaustion which are the only wages with which the Flemings repay the most patient and laborious of all their four-footed vic- tims. One day, after two years of this long and deadly agony, Patrasche was going on as usual along one of the straight, dusty, unlovely roads that lead to the city of Rubens. It was full midsummer, and very warm. His cart was very heavy, piled high with goods in metal and in earthenware. His owner sauntered on without noticing him otherwise than by the crack of the whip as it curled round his quivering loins. The Brabantois had paused to drink beer himself at every wayside house, but he had forbidden Patrasche to stop a mo- ment for a draught from the canal. Going along thus, in the full sun, on a scorching highway, having eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, and, which was far worse to him, not having tasted water for nearly twelve, being blind with dust, sore with blows, and stupefied with the merciless weight which dragged upon his loins, Pastrasche, for once, staggered and foamed a little at the mouth and fell. He fell in the middle of the white, dusty road, in the full glare of the sun: he was sick unto death, and mo- tionless. His master gave him the only medicine in his 140 A DOG OF FLANDERS pharmacy, — kicks and oaths and blows with a cudgel of oak, which had been often the only food and drink, the only wage and reward, ever offered to him. But Patrasche was beyond the reach of any torture or of any curses. Patrasche lay, dead to all appearances, down in the white powder of the summer dust. After a while, finding it useless to assail his ribs with punish- ment and his ears with maledictions, the Brabantois — deeming life gone in him, or going so nearly that his carcass was forever useless, unless indeed some one should strip it of the skin for gloves — cursed him fiercely in farewell, struck off the leathern bands of the harness, kicked his body heavily aside into the grass, and, groaning and muttering in savage wrath, pushed the cart lazily along the road uphill, and left the dying dog there for the ants to sting and for the crows to pick. It was the last day before Kermesse away at Lou- vain, and the Brabantois was in haste to reach the fair and get a good place for his truck of brass wares. He was in fierce wrath, because Patrasche had been a strong and much-enduring animal, and because he himself had now the hard task of pushing his charette all the way to Lou vain. But to stay to look after Patrasche never entered his thoughts: the beast was dying and useless, and he would steal, to replace him, the first large dog that he found wandering alone out of sight of its master. Patrasche had cost him nothing, or next to nothing, and for two long, cruel years he had made him toil ceaselessly in his service from sunrise to sunset, through summer and winter, in fair weather and foul. He had got a fair use and a good profit out of Pa- 141 MODERN STORIES trasche: being human, he was wise, and left the dog to draw his last breath alone in the ditch, and have his bloodshot eyes plucked out as they might be by the birds, whilst he himself went on his way to beg and to steal, to eat and to drink, to dance and to sing, in the mirth at Louvain. A dying dog, a dog of the cart, — why should he waste hours over its agonies at peril of losing a handful of copper coins, at peril of a shout of laughter? Patrasche lay there, flung in the grass-green ditch. It was a busy road that day, and hundreds of people, on foot and on mules, in wagons or in carts, went by, tramping quickly and joyously on to Louvain. Some saw him, most did not even look: all passed on. A dead dog more or less, — it was nothing in Brabant : it would be nothing anywhere in the world. After a time, amongst the holiday makers, there came a little old man who was bent and lame, and very feeble. He was in no guise for feasting: he was very poorly and miserably clad, and he dragged his silent way slowly through the dust amongst the pleasure seekers. He looked at Patrasche, paused, wondered, turned aside, then kneeled down in the rank grass and weeds of the ditch, and surveyed the dog with kindly eyes of pity. There was with him a little rosy, fair- haired, dark-eyed child of a few years old, who pat- tered in amidst the bushes, that were for him breast- high, and stood gazing with a pretty seriousness upon the poor, great, quiet beast. Thus it was that these two first met, — the little Nello and the big Patrasche. 142 A DOG OF FLANDERS II The upshot of that day was, that old Jehan Daas, with much laborious effort, drew the sufferer home- ward to his own little hut, which was a stone's-throw off amidst the fields, and there tended him with so much care that the sickness, which had been a brain seizure, brought on by heat and thirst and exhaustion, with time and shade and rest passed away, and health and strength returned, and Patrasche staggered up again upon his four stout, tawny legs. Now for many weeks he had been useless, power- less, sore, near to death; but all this time he had heard no rough word, had felt no harsh touch, but only the pitying murmurs of the little child's voice and the soothing caress of the old man's hand. In his sickness they two had grown to care for him, this lonely old man and the little happy child. He had a corner of the hut, with a heap of dry grass for his bed; and they had learned to listen eagerly for his breathing in the dark night, to tell them that he lived; and when he first was well enough to essay a loud, hollow, broken bay, they laughed aloud, and almost wept together for joy at such a sign of his sure resto- ration; and little Nello, in delighted glee, hung round his rugged neck chains of marguerites, and kissed him with fresh and ruddy lips. So then, when Patrasche arose, himself again, strong, big, gaunt, powerful, his great wistful eyes had a gentle astonishment in them that there were no curses to rouse 143 MODERN STORIES him and no blows to drive him; and his heart awak- ened to a mighty love, which never wavered once in its fidelity whilst life abode with him. But Patrasche, being a dog, was grateful. Patrasche lay pondering long with grave, tender, musing brown eyes, watching the movements of his friends. Now, the old soldier, Jehan Daas, could do nothing for his living but limp about a little with a small cart, with which he carried daily the milk-cans of those happier neighbors who owned cattle away into the town of Antwerp. The villagers gave him the employment a little out of charity, — more because it suited them well to send their milk into the town by so honest a carrier, and bide at home themselves to look after their gardens, their cows, their poultry, or their little fields. But it was becoming hard work for the old man. He was eighty-three, and Antwerp was a good league off, or more. Patrasche watched the milk-cans come and go that one day when he had got well and was lying in the sun with the wreath of marguerites round his tawny neck. The next morning, Patrasche, before the old man had touched the cart, arose and walked to it and placed himself betwixt its handles, and testified as plainly as dumb show could do his desire and his ability to work in return for the bread of charity that he had eaten. Jehan Daas resisted long, for the old man was one of those who thought it a foul shame to bind dogs to labor for which Nature never formed them. But Patrasche would not be gainsaid: finding they did not harness him, he tried to draw the cart onward with his teeth 144 A DOG OF FLANDERS At length Jehan Daas gave way, vanquished by the persistence and the gratitude of this creature whom he had succored. He fashioned his cart so that Patrasche' could run in it, and this he did every morning of his life thenceforward. When the winter came, Jehan Daas thanked the blessed fortune that had brought him to the dying dog in the ditch that fair-day of Louvain; for he was very old, and he grew feebler with each year, and he would ill have known how to pull his load of milk-cans over the snows and through the deep ruts in the mud if it had not been for the strength and the industry of the animal he had befriended. As for Patrasche, it seemed heaven to him. After the frightful burdens that his old master had compelled him to strain under, at the call of the whip at every step, it seemed nothing to him but amusement to step out with this little light, green cart, with its bright brass cans, by the side of the gentle old man, who always paid him with a tender caress and with a kindly word. Besides, his work was over by three or four in the day, and after that time he was free to do as he would, — to stretch himself, to sleep in the sun, to wander in the fields, to romp with the young child, or to play with his fellow dogs. Patrasche was very happy. Fortunately for his peace, his former owner was killed in a drunken brawl at the Kermesse of Mechlin, and so sought not after him nor disturbed him in his new and well-loved home. A few years later, old Jehan Daas, who had always been a cripple, became so paralyzed with rheumatism 145 MODERN STORIES that it was impossible for him to go out with the cart any more. Then little Nello, being now grown to his sixth year of age, and knowing the town well from having accompanied his grandfather so many times, took his place beside the cart, and sold the milk and received the coins in exchange, and brought them back to their respective owners with a pretty grace and seriousness which charmed all who beheld him. The little Ardennois was a beautiful child, with dark, grave, tender eyes, and a lovely bloom upon his face, and fair locks that clustered to his throat; and many an artist sketched the group as it went by him, — the green cart with the brass flagons of Teniers and Mieris and Van Tal, and the great tawny-colored, massive dog, with his belled harness that chimed cheerily as he went, and the small figure that ran beside him, which had little white feet in great wooden shoes, and a soft, grave, innocent, happy face like the little fair children of Ru- bens. Nello and Patrasche did the work so well and so joy- fully together that Jehan Daas himself, when the sum- mer came and he was better again, had no need to stir out, but could sit in the doorway in the sun and see them go forth through the garden wicket, and then doze and dream and pray a little, and then awake again as the clock tolled three and watch for their return. And on their return Patrasche would shake himself free of his harness with a bay of glee, and Nello would recount with pride the doings of the day ; and they would all go in together to their meal of rye bread and milk or soup, and would see the shadows lengthen over the 146 t+* rzi&Tzji ^i^ dm S-MVJr^ v : & NELLO AND PATRASCHE DID THE WORK SO WELL AND SO JOY- FULLY TOGETHER THAT JEHAN DAAS HIMSELF, WHEN THE SUM- MER CAME AND HE WAS BETTER AGAIN, HAD NO NEED TO STIR OUT, BUT COULD SIT IN THE DOORWAY IN THE SUN AND SEE THEM •* . , «K 15*3 aT^\ SiSSfSL z%® A DOG OF FLANDERS great plain, and see the twilight veil the fair cathedral spire; and then lie down together to sleep peacefully while the old man said a prayer. Ill So the days and years went on, and the lives of Nellc and Patrasche were happy, innocent, and healthful. In the spring and summer especially were they glad. Flanders is not a lovely land, and around the burgh of Rubens it is perhaps least lovely of all. Corn and colza, pasture and plow, succeed each other on the charac- terless plain in wearying repetition, and save by some gaunt gray tower, with its peal of pathetic bells, or some figure coming athwart the fields, made picturesque by a gleaner's bundle or a woodman's fagot, there is no change, no variety, no beauty anywhere; and he who has dwelt upon the mountains or amidst the forests feels oppressed as by imprisonment with the tedium and the endlessness of that vast and dreary level. But it is green and very fertile, and it has wide horizons that have a certain charm of their own even in their dullness and monotony; and amongst the rushes by the water- side the flowers grow, and the trees rise tall and fresh where the barges glide with their great hulks black against the sun, and their little green barrels and vari- colored flags gay against the leaves. Anyway, there is greenery and breadth of space enough to be as good as beauty to a child and a dog; and these two asked no better, when their work was done, than to lie buried in the lush grasses on the side of the canal, and watch the 147 MODERN STORIES cumbrous vessels drifting by and bringing the crisp salt smell of the sea amongst the blossoming scents of the country summer. True, in the winter it was harder, and they had to rise in the darkness and the bitter cold, and they had seldom as much as they could have eaten any day, and the hut was scarce better than a shed when the nights were cold, although it looked so pretty in warm weather, buried in a great kindly clambering vine, that never bore fruit, indeed, but which covered it with luxuriant green tracery all through the months of blossom and harvest. In winter the winds found many holes in the walls of the poor little hut, and the vine was black and leafless, and the bare lands looked very bleak and drear without, and sometimes within the floor was flooded and then frozen. In winter it was hard, and the snow numbed the little white limbs of Nello, and the icicles cut the brave, untiring feet of Patrasche. But even then they were never heard to lament, either of them. The child's wooden shoes and the dog's four legs would trot manfully together over the frozen fields to the chime of the bells on the harness ; and then some- times, in the streets of Antwerp, some housewife would bring them a bowl of soup and a handful of bread, 01 some kindly trader would throw some billets of fuel into the little cart as it went homeward, or some woman in their own village would bid them keep some share of the milk they carried for their own food; and then they would run over the white lands, through the early darkness, bright and happy, and burst with a shout of joy into their home. 148 A DOG OF FLANDERS So, on the whole, it was well with them, very well; and Patrasche, meeting on the highway or in the pub- lic streets the many dogs who toiled from daybreak into nightfall, paid only with blows and curses, and loosened from the shafts with a kick to starve and freeze as best they might, — Patrasche in his heart was very grateful to his fate, and thought it the fairest and the kindliest the world could hold. Though he was often very hungry indeed when he lay down at night; though he had to work in the heats of summer noons and the rasping chills of winter dawns ; though his feet were often ten- der with wounds from the sharp edges of the jagged pavement; though he had to perform tasks beyond his strength and against his nature, — yet he was grateful and content: he did his duty with each day, and the eyes that he loved smiled down on him. It was suffi- cient for Patrasche. There was only one thing which caused Patrasche any uneasiness in his life, and it was this. Antwerp, as all the world knows, is full at every turn of old piles of stones, dark and ancient and majestic, standing in crooked courts, jammed against gateways and taverns, rising by the water's edge, with bells ringing above them in the air, and ever and again out of their arched doors a swell of music pealing. There they remain, the grand old sanctuaries of the past, shut in amidst the squalor, the hurry, the crowds, the unloveliness, and the commerce of the modern world, and all day long the clouds drift and the birds circle and the winds sigh around them, and beneath the earth at their feet there sleeps — Rubens. 149 MODERN STORIES And the greatness of the mighty Master still rests upon Antwerp, and wherever we turn in its narrow streets his glory lies therein, so that all mean things are thereby transfigured ; and as we pace slowly through the winding ways, and by the edge of the stagnant water, and through the noisome courts, his spirit abides with us, and the heroic beauty of his visions is about us, and the stones that once felt his footsteps and bore his shadow seem to arise and speak of him with living voices. For the city which is the tomb of Rubens still lives to us through him, and him alone. It is so quiet there by that great white sepulchre, — so quiet, save only when the organ peals and the choir cries aloud the Sal v e Regina or the Kyrie Eleison. Sure no artist ever had a greater gravestone than that pure marble sanctuary gives to him in the heart of his birthplace in the chancel of St. Jacques. Without Rubens, what were Antwerp ? A dirty, dusky, bustling mart, which no man would ever care to look upon save the traders who do business on its wharves. With Rubens, to the whole world of men it is a sacred name, a sacred soil, a Bethlehem where a god of Art saw light, a Golgotha where a god of Art lies dead. O nations! closely should you treasure your great men, for by them alone will the future know of you. Flanders in her generations has been wise. In his life she glorified this greatest of her sons, and in his death she magnifies his name. But her wisdom is very rare. Now, the trouble of Patrasche was this. Into these great, sad piles of stones, that reared their melancholy 150 A DOG OF FLANDERS majesty above the crowded roofs, the child Nello would many and many a time enter, and disappear through their dark, arched portals, whilst Patrasche, left with- out upon the pavement, would wearily and vainly pon- der on what could be the charm which thus allured from him his inseparable and beloved companion. Once or twice he did essay to see for himself, clattering up the steps with his milk-cart behind him ; but thereon he had been always sent back again summarily by a tall custodian in black clothes and silver chains of office; and fearful of bringing his little master into trouble, he desisted, and remained couched patiently before the churches until such time as the boy reappeared. It was not the fact of his going into them which disturbed Patrasche : he knew that people went to church : all the village went to the small, tumble-down, gray pile oppo- site the red windmill. What troubled him was that little Nello always looked strangely when he came out, always very flushed or very pale; and whenever he re- turned home after such visitations would sit silent and dreaming, not caring to play, but gazing out at the evening skies beyond the line of the canal, very subdued and almost sad. What was it? wondered Patrasche. He thought it could not be good or natural for the little lad to be so grave, and in his dumb fashion he tried all he could to keep Nello by him in the sunny fields or in the busy market-place. But to the churches Nello would go: most often of all would he go to the great cathedral ; and Patrasche, left without on the stones by the iron frag- ments of Quentin Matsys's gate, would stretch himself 151 MODERN STORIES and yawn and sigh, and even howl now and then, all in vain, until the doors closed and the child perforce came forth again, and winding his arms about the dog's neck would kiss him on his broad, tawny-colored forehead, and murmur always the same words: "If I could only see them, Patrasche ! — if I could only see them!" What were they? pondered Patrasche, looking up with large, wistful, sympathetic eyes. One day, when the custodian was out of the way and the doors left ajar, he got in for a moment after his little friend and saw. "They" were two great covered pic- tures on either side of the choir. Nello was kneeling, rapt as in an ecstasy, before the altar picture of the Assumption, and when he noticed Patrasche, and rose and drew the dog gently out into the air, his face was wet with tears, and he looked up at the veiled places as he passed them, and murmured to his companion, "It is so terrible not to see them, Patrasche, just because one is poor and cannot pay ! He never meant that the poor should not see them when he painted them, I am sure. He would have had us see them any day, every day: that I am sure. And they keep them shrouded there, — shrouded in the dark, the beautiful things! — and they never feel the light, and no eyes look on them, unless rich people come and pay. If I could only see them, I would be content to die." But he could not see them, and Patrasche could not help him, for to gain the silver piece that the church exacts as the price for looking on the glories of the Ele- 152 A DOG OF FLANDERS vation of the Cross and the Descent from the Cross was a thing as utterly beyond the powers of either of them as it would have been to scale the heights of the cathedral spire. They had never so much as a sou to spare: if they cleared enough to get a little wood for the stove, a little broth for the pot, it was the utmost they could do. And yet the heart of the child was set in sore and end- less longing upon beholding the greatness of the two veiled Rubens. The whole soul of the little Ardennois thrilled and stirred with an absorbing passion for Art. Going on his ways through the old city in the early days before the sun or the people had risen, Nello, who looked only a little peasant-boy, with a great dog drawing milk to sell from door to door, was in a heaven of dreams whereof Rubens was the god. Nello, cold and hungry, with stockingless feet in wooden shoes, and the winter winds blowing amongst his curls and lifting his poor thin garments, was in a rapture of meditation, wherein all that he saw was the beautiful fair face of the Mary of the Assumption, with the waves of her golden hair lying upon her shoulders, and the light of an eternal sun shining down upon her brow. Nello, reared in pov- erty, and buffeted by fortune, and untaught in letters, and unheeded by men, had the compensation or the curse which is called Genius. No one knew it; he as little as any. No one knew it. Only indeed Patrasche, who, being with him always, saw him draw with chalk upon the stones any and every thing that grew or breathed, heard him on his little bed of hay murmur all manner of timid, pathetic prayers to 153 MODERN STORIES the spirit of the great Master; watched his gaze darken and his face radiate at the evening glow of sunset or the rosy rising of the dawn ; and felt many and many a time the tears of a strange nameless pain and joy, mingled together, fall hotly from the bright young eyes upon his own wrinkled, yellow forehead. " I should go to my grave quite content if I thought, Nello, that when thou growest a man thou couldst own this hut and the little plot of ground, and labor for thy- self, and be called Baas by thy neighbors," said the old man Jehan many an hour from his bed. For to own a bit of soil, and to be called Baas — master — by the hamlet round, is to have achieved the highest ideal of a Flemish peasant; and the old soldier, who had wan- dered over all the earth in his youth, and had brought nothing back, deemed in his old age that to live and die on one spot in contented humility was the fairest fate he could desire for his darling. But Nello said nothing. The same leaven was working in him that in other times begat Rubens and Jordaens and the Van Eycks, and all their wondrous tribe, and in times more recent begat in the green country of the Ardennes, where the Meuse washes the old walls of Dijon, the great artist of the Patroclus, whose genius is too near us for us aright to measure its divinity. Nello dreamed of other things in the future than of tilling the little rood of earth, and living under the wattle roof, and being called Baas by neighbors a little poorer or a little less poor than himself. The cathe- dral spire, where it rose beyond the fields in the ruddy 154 A DOG OF FLANDERS evening skies or in the dim, gray, misty mornings, said other things to him than this. But these he told only to Patrasche, whispering, childlike, his fancies in the dog's ear when they went together at their work through the fogs of the daybreak, or lay together at their rest amongst the rustling rushes by the water's side. For such dreams are not easily shaped into speech to awake the slow sympathies of human auditors; and they would only have sorely perplexed and troubled the poor old man bedridden in his corner, who, for his part, whenever he had trodden the streets of Antwerp, had thought the daub of blue and red that they called a Madonna, on the walls of the wine-shop where he drank his sou's worth of black beer, quite as good as any of the famous altar-pieces for which the stranger folk traveled far and wide into Flanders from every land on which the good sun shone. IV There was only one other beside Patrasche to whom Nello could talk at all of his daring fantasies. This other was little Alois, who lived at the old red mill on the grassy mound, and whose father, the miller, was the best-to-do husbandman in all the village. Little Alois was only a pretty baby with soft round, rosy features, made lovely by those sweet, dark eyes that the Spanish rule has left in so many a Flemish face, in testimony of the Alvan dominion, as Spanish art has left broad sown throughout the country majestic pal- aces and stately courts, gilded house-fronts and sculp- 155 MODERN STORIES tured lintels, — histories in blazonry and poems in stone. Little Alois was often with Nello and Patrasche. They played in the fields, they ran in the snow, they gathered the daisies and bilberries, they went up to the old gray church together, and they often sat to- gether by the broad wood-fire in the mill-house. Little Alois, indeed, was the richest child in the hamlet. She had neither brother nor sister; her blue serge dress had never a hole in it; at Kermesse she had as many gilded nuts and Agni Dei in sugar as her hands could hold; and when she went up for her first communion her flaxen curls were covered with a cap of richest Mech- lin lace, which had been her mother's and her grand- mother's before it came to her. Men spoke already, though she had but twelve years, of the good wife she would be for their sons to woo and win ; but she herself was a little gay, simple child, in nowise conscious of her heritage, and she loved no playfellows so well as Jehan Daas's grandson and his dog. One day her father, Baas Cogez, a good man, but somewhat stern, came on a pretty group in the long meadow behind the mill, where the aftermath had that day been cut. It was his little daughter sitting amidst the hay, with the great tawny head of Patrasche on her lap, and many wreaths of poppies and blue corn-flowers round them both : on a clean smooth slab of pine wood the boy Nello drew their likeness with a stick of char- coal. The miller stood and looked at the portrait with tears in his eyes, it was so strangely like, and he loved his 156 SITTING AMIDST THE HAY, WITH THE GREAT TAWNY HEAD OF PATRASCHE ON HER LAP, AND MANY WREATHS OF POPPIES AND BLUE CORN-FLOWERS ROUND THEM BOTH: ON A CLEAN SMOOTH SLAB OF PINE WOOD THE BOY NELLO DREW THEIR LIKENESS Tl' ■SKEiSfc A DOG OF FLANDERS only child closely and well. Then he roughly chid the little girl for idling there whilst her mother needed her within, and sent her indoors crying and afraid; then, turning, he snatched the wood from Nello's hands. " Dost do much of such folly ? " he asked, but there was a tremble in his voice. Nello colored and hung his head. "I draw every- thing I see," he murmured. The miller was silent ; then he stretched his hand out with a franc in it. " It is folly, as I say, and evil waste of time; nevertheless, it is like Alois, and will please the house-mother. Take this silver bit for it and leave it for me." The color died out of the face of the young Arden- nois; he lifted his head and put his hands behind his back. " Keep your money and the portrait both, Baas Cogez," he said simply. "You have been often good to me." Then he called Patrasche to him, and walked away across the fields. "I could have seen them with that franc," he mur- mured to Patrasche, "but I could not sell her picture, — not even for them." Baas Cogez went into his mill-house sore troubled in his mind. "That lad must not be so much with Alois," he said to his wife that night. "Trouble may come of it hereafter: he is fifteen now, and she is twelve; and the boy is comely of face and form." "And he is a good lad and a loyal," said the house- wife, feasting her eyes on the piece of pine wood where it was throned above the chimney with a cuckoo clock in oak and a Calvary in wax. 157 MODERN STORIES "Yea, I do not gainsay that," said the miller, drain- ing his pewter flagon. "Then, if what you think of were ever to come to pass," said the wife hesitatingly, "would it matter so much ? She will have enough for both, and one cannot be better than happy." "You are a woman, and therefore a fool," said the miller harshly, striking his pipe on the table. "The lad is naught but a beggar, and, with these painter's fancies, worse than a beggar. Have a care that they are not together in the future, or I will send the child to the surer keeping of the nuns of the Sacred Heart." The poor mother was terrified, and promised hum- bly to do his will. Not that she could bring herself altogether to separate the child from her favorite play- mate, nor did the miller even desire that extreme of cruelty to a young lad who was guilty of nothing except poverty. But there were many ways in which little Alois was kept away from her chosen companion ; and Nello, being a boy proud and quiet and sensitive, was quickly wounded, and ceased to turn his own steps and those of Patrasche, as he had been used to do with every mo- ment of leisure, to the old red mill upon the slope. What his offense w T as he did not know: he supposed he had in some manner angered Baas Cogez by taking the por- trait of Alois in the meadow; and when the child who loved him would run to him and nestle her hand in his, he would smile at her very sadly and say with a tender concern for her before himself, "Nay, Alois, do not anger your father. He thinks that I make you idle, dear, and he is not pleased that you should be with me. He 158 A DOG OF FLANDERS is a good man and loves you well: we will not anger him, Alois." But it was with a sad heart that he said it, and the earth did not look so bright to him as it had used to do when he went out at sunrise under the poplars down the straight roads with Patrasche. The old red mill had been a landmark to him, and he had been used to pause by it, going and coming, for a cheery greeting with its people as her little flaxen head rose above the low mill- wicket, and her little rosy hands had held out a bone or a crust to Patrasche. Now the dog looked wistfully at a closed door, and the boy went on without pausing, with a pang at his heart, and the child sat within with tears dropping slowly on the knitting to which she was set on her little stool by the stove; and Baas Cogez, work- ing among his sacks and his mill-gear, would harden his will and say to himself, "It is best so. The lad is all but a beggar, and full of idle, dreaming fooleries. Who knows what mischief might not come of it in the future ? " So he was wise in his generation, and would not have the door unbarred, except upon rare and for- mal occasions, which seemed to have neither warmth nor mirth in them to the two children, who had been ac- customed so long to a daily gleeful, careless, happy inter- change of greeting, speech, and pastime, with no other watcher of their sports or auditor of their fancies than Patrasche, sagely shaking the brazen bells of his collar and responding with all a dog's swift sympathies to their every change of mood. All this while the little panel of pine wood remained over the chimney in the mill kitchen with the cuckoo 159 MODERN STORIES clock and the waxen Calvary; and sometimes it seemed to Nello a little hard that whilst his gift was accepted he himself should be denied. But he did not complain : it was his habit to be quiet. Old Jehan Daas had said ever to him, "We are poor; we must take what God sends, — the ill with the good : the poor cannot choose." To which the boy had always listened in silence, be- ing reverent of his old grandfather; but nevertheless a certain vague, sweet hope, such as beguiles the children of genius, had whispered in his heart, "Yet the poor do choose sometimes, — choose to be great, so that men cannot say them nay." And he thought so still in his innocence; and one day, when the little Alois, find- ing him by chance alone amongst the cornfields by the canal, ran to him and held him close, and sobbed pite- ously because the morrow would be her saint's day, and for the first time in all her life her parents had failed to bid him to the little supper and romp in the great barns with which her feast-day was always celebrated, Nello had kissed her and murmured to her in firm faith, "It shall be different one day, Alois. One day that little bit of pine wood that your father has of mine shall be worth its weight in silver ; and he will not shut the door against me then. Only love me always, dear little Alois, only love me always, and I will be great." " And if I do not love you ? " the pretty child asked, pouting a little through her tears, and moved by the in- stinctive coquetries of her sex. Nello's eyes left her face and wandered to the dis- tance, where in the red and gold of the Flemish night 160 A DOG OF FLANDERS the cathedral spire rose. There was a smile on his face so sweet and yet so sad that little Alois was awed by it. "I will be great still," he said under his breath, — "great still, or die, Alois." "You do not love me," said the little spoilt child, pushing him away; but the boy shook his head and smiled, and went on his way through the tall yellow corn, seeing as in a vision some day in a fair future when he should come into that old familiar land and ask Alois of her people, and be not refused or denied but received in honor, whilst the village folk should throng to look upon him and say in one another's ears, " Dost see him ? He is a king among men, for he is a great artist and the world speaks his name; and yet he was only our poor little Nello, who was a beggar, as one may say, and only got his bread by the help of his dog." And he thought how he would fold his grandsire in furs and purples, and portray him as the old man is portrayed in the Family in the chapel of St. Jacques; and of how he would hang the throat of Patrasche with a collar of gold, and place him on his right hand, and say to the people, " This was once my only friend ; " and of how he would build himself a great white marble palace, and make to himself luxuriant gardens of pleasure, on the slope looking outward to where the cathedral spire rose, and not dwell in it himself, but summon to it, as to a home, all men young and poor and friendless, but of the will to do mighty things; and of how he would say to them always, if they sought to bless his name, "Nay, do not thank me, — thank Rubens. Without him, what should I have been ? " And these dreams, beautiful, impossible, 161 MODERN STORIES innocent, free of all selfishness, full of heroical wor- ship, were so closely about him as he went that he was happy, — happy even on this sad anniversary of Alois's saint's day, when he and Patrasche went home by them- selves to the little dark hut and the meal of black bread, whilst in the mill-house all the children of the village sang and laughed, and ate the big round cakes of Dijon and the almond gingerbread of Brabant, and danced in the great barn to the light of the stars and the music of flute and fiddle. "Never mind, Patrasche," he said, with his arms round the dog's neck as they both sat in the door of the hut, where the sounds of the mirth at the mill came down to them on the night air, — "never mind. It shall all be changed by and by." He believed in the future : Patrasche, of more experi- ence and of more philosophy, thought that the loss of the mill supper in the present was ill compensated by dreams of milk and honey in some vague hereafter. And Patrasche growled whenever he passed by Baas Cogez. "This is Alois's name-day, is it not?" said the old man Daas that night, from the corner where he was stretched upon his bed of sacking. The boy gave a gesture of assent : he wished that the old man's memory had erred a little, instead of keeping such sure account. "And why not there?" his grandfather pursued. J 'Thou hast never missed a year before, Nello." "Thou art too sick to leave," murmured the lad, bending his handsome young head over the bed. 'Tut! tut! Mother Nulette would have come and sat 162 A DOG OF FLANDERS with me, as she does scores of times. What is the cause, Nello ?" the old man persisted. "Thou surely hast not had ill words with the little one ? " "Nay, grandfather, — never," said the boy quickly, with a hot color in his bent face. "Simply and truly, Baas Cogez did not have me asked this year. He has taken some whim against me." "But thou hast done nothing wrong?" "That I know — nothing. I took the portrait of Alois on a piece of pine, that is all." "Ah!" The old man was silent: the truth suggested itself to him with the boy's innocent answer. He was tied to a bed of dried leaves in the corner of a wattle hut, but he had not wholly forgotten what the ways of the world were like. He drew Nello's fair head fondly to his breast with a tenderer gesture. "Thou art very poor, my child," he said, with a quiver the more in his aged, trembling voice, — "so poor! It is very hard for thee." "Nay, I am rich," murmured Nello; and in his in- nocence he thought so — rich with the imperishable powers that are mightier than the might of kings. And he went and stood by the door of the hut in the quiet au- tumn night, and watched the stars troop by and the tall poplars bend and shiver in the wind. All the casements of the mill-house were lighted, and every now and then the notes of the flute came to him. The tears fell down his cheeks, for he was but a child ; yet he smiled, for he said to himself, "In the future!" He stayed there until all was quite still and dark, then he and Patrasche went within and slept together long and deeply, side by side. 163 MODERN STORIES Now he had a secret which only Patrasche knew. There was a little outhouse to the hut, which no one entered but himself, — a dreary place, but with abun- dant clear light from the north. Here he had fashioned himself rudely an easel in rough lumber, and here on a great gray sea of stretched paper he had given shape to one of the innumerable fancies which possessed his brain. No one had ever taught him anything; colors he had no means to buy; he had gone without bread many a time to procure even the few rude vehicles that he had here; and it was only in black or white that he could fashion the things he saw. This great figure which he had drawn here in chalk was only an old man sitting on a fallen tree, — only that. He had seen old Michel the woodman sitting so at evening many a time. He had never had a soul to tell him of outline or perspec- tive, of anatomy or of shadow, and yet he had given all the weary, worn-out age, all the sad, quiet patience, all the rugged, careworn pathos of his original, and given them so that the old lonely figure was a poem, sitting there, meditative and alone, on the dead tree, with the darkness of the descending night behind him. It was rude, of course, in a way, and had many faults, no doubt; and yet it was real, true in Nature, true in Art, and very mournful, and in a manner beau- tiful. Patrasche had lain quiet countless hours watching 164 A DOG OF FLANDERS its gradual creation after the labor of each day was done, and he knew that Nello had a hope — vain and wide perhaps, but strongly cherished — of sending this great drawing to compete for a prize of two hundred francs a year which it was announced in Antwerp would be open to every lad of talent, scholar or peasant, under eighteen, who would attempt to win it with some un- aided work of chalk or pencil. Three of the foremost artists in the town of Rubens were to be the judges and elect the victor according to his merits. All the spring and summer and autumn Nello had been at work upon this treasure, which, if triumphant, would build him his first step toward independence and the mysteries of the art which he blindly, ignorantly, and yet passionately adored. He said nothing to any one: his grandfather would not have understood, and little Alois was lost to him. Only to Patrasche he told all, and whispered, "Rubens would give it to me, I think, if he knew." Patrasche thought so too, for he knew that Rubens had loved dogs or he had never painted them with such exquisite fidelity; and men who loved dogs were, as Patrasche knew, always pitiful. The drawings were to go in on the first day of Decem- ber, and the decision be given on the twenty-fourth, so that he who should win might rejoice with all his people at the Christmas season. In the twilight of a bitter wintry day, and with a beating heart, now quick with hope, now faint with fear, Nello placed the great picture on his little green milk- cart, and took it, with the help of Patrasche, into the 165 MODERN STORIES town, and there left it, as enjoined, at the doors of a public building. "Perhaps it is worth nothing at all. How can I tell ?" he thought, with the heart-sickness of a great timidity. Now that he had left it there, it seemed to him so haz- ardous, so vain, so foolish, to dream that he, a little lad with bare feet, who barely knew his letters, could do any- thing at which great painters, real artists, could ever deign to look. Yet he took heart as he went by the ca- thedral : the lordly form of Rubens seemed to rise from the fog and the darkness, and to loom in its magnifi- cence before him, whilst the lips with their kindly smile seemed to him to murmur, "Nay, have courage! It was not by a weak heart and by faint fears that I wrote my name for all time upon Antwerp." Nello ran home through the cold night, comforted. He had done his best: the rest must be as God willed, he thought, in that innocent, unquestioning faith which had been taught him in the little gray chapel amongst the willows and the poplar trees. The winter was very sharp already. That night, after they had reached the hut, snow fell; and fell for very many days after that, so that the paths and the divisions in the fields were all obliterated, and all the smaller streams were frozen over, and the cold was intense upon the plains. Then, indeed, it became hard work to go round for the milk while the world was all dark, and carry it through the darkness to the silent town. Hard work, especially for Patrasche, for the passage of the years, that were only bringing Nello a stronger youth, were bringing him old age, and his joints were stiff and 166 A DOG OF FLANDERS his bones ached often. But he would never give up his share of the labor. Nello would fain have spared him and drawn the cart himself, but Patrasche would not allow it. All he would ever permit or accept was the help of a thrust from behind to the truck as it lumbered along through the ice ruts. Patrasche had lived in har- ness, and he was proud of it. He suffered a great deal sometimes from frost, and the terrible roads, and the rheumatic pains of his' limbs; but he only drew his breath hard and bent his stout neck, and trod onward with steady patience. "Rest thee at home, Patrasche, — it is time thou didst rest, — and I can quite well push in the cart by myself," urged Nello many a morning; but Patrasche, who understood him aright, would no more have con- sented to stay at home than a veteran soldier to shirk when the charge was sounding; and every day he would rise and place himself in his shafts, and plod along over the snow through the fields that his four round feet had left their print upon so many, many years. "One must never rest till one dies," thought Pa- trasche; and sometimes it seemed to him that that time of rest for him was not very far off. His sight was less clear than it had been, and it gave him pain to rise after the night's sleep, though he would never lie a moment in his straw when once the bell of the chapel tolling five let him know that the daybreak of labor had begun. "My poor Patrasche, we shall soon lie quiet together, you and I," said old Jehan Daas, stretching out to stroke the head of Patrasche with the old withered hand 167 MODERN STORIES which had always shared with him its one poor crust of bread; and the hearts of the old man and the old dog ached together with one thought : When they were gone, who would care for their darling ? VI One afternoon, as they came back from Antwerp over the snow, which had became hard and smooth as marble over all the Flemish plains, they found dropped in the road a pretty little puppet, a tambourine player, all scarlet and gold, about six inches high, and, unlike greater personages when Fortune lets them drop, quite unspoiled and unhurt by its fall. It was a pretty toy. Nello tried to find its owner, and, failing, thought that it was just the thing to please Alois. It was quite night when he passed the mill-house: he knew the little window of her room. It could be no harm, he thought, if he gave her his little piece of treasure- trove, they had been playfellows so long. There was a shed with a sloping roof beneath her casement: he climbed it and tapped softly at the lattice: there was a little light within. The child opened it and looked out, half frightened. Nello put the tambourine player into her hands. "Here is a doll I found in the snow, Alois. Take it," he whispered, — "take it, and God bless thee, dear!" He slid down from the shed roof before she had time to thank him, and ran off through the darkness. That night there was a fire at the mill. Outbuildings and much corn were destroyed, although the mill itself 168 A DOG OF FLANDERS and the dwelling-house were unharmed. All the village was out in terror, and engines came tearing through the snow from Antwerp. The miller was insured, and would lose nothing: nevertheless, he was in furious wrath, and declared aloud that the fire was due to no accident, but to some foul intent. Nello, awakened from his sleep, ran to help with the rest: Baas Cogez thrust him angrily aside. "Thou wert loitering here after dark," he said roughly. "I believe, on my soul, that thou dost know more of the fire than any one." Nello heard him in silence, stupefied, not supposing that any one could say such things except in jest, and not comprehending how any one could pass a jest at such a time. Nevertheless, the miller said the brutal thing openly to many of his neighbors in the day that followed; and though no serious charge was ever preferred against the lad, it got bruited about that Nello had been seen in the mill-yard after dark on some unspoken errand, and that he bore Baas Cogez a grudge for forbidding his intercourse with little Alois; and so the hamlet, which followed the sayings of its richest landowner servilely, and whose families all hoped to secure the riches of Alois in some future time for their sons, took the hint to give grave looks and cold words to old Jehan Daas's grandson. No one said anything to him openly, but all the village agreed together to humor the miller's prejudice, and at the cottages and farms where Nello and Patrasche called every morning for the milk for Antwerp, downcast glances and brief phrases replaced 169 MODERN STORIES to them the broad smiles and cheerful greetings to which they had been always used. No one really credited the miller's absurd suspicions, nor the outrageous accusa- tions born of them; but the people were all very poor and very ignorant, and the one rich man of the place had pronounced against him. Nello, in his innocence and his friendlessness, had no strength to stem the popular tide. "Thou art very cruel to the lad," the miller's wife dared to say, weeping, to her lord. "Sure he is an inno- cent lad and a faithful, and would never dream of any such wickedness, however sore his heart might be." But Baas Cogez, being an obstinate man, having once said a thing, held to it doggedly, though in his innermost soul he knew well the injustice that he was committing. Meanwhile, Nello endured the injury done against him with a certain proud patience that disdained to complain; he only gave way a little when he was quite alone with old Patrasche. Besides, he thought, "If it should win! They will be sorry then, perhaps." Still, to a boy not quite sixteen, and who had dwelt in one little world all his short life, and in his childhood had been caressed and applauded on all sides, it was a hard trial to have the whole of that little world turn against him for naught. Especially hard in that bleak, snow-bound, famine-stricken winter time, when the only light and warmth there could be found abode be- side the village hearths and in the kindly greetings of neighbors. In the winter time all drew nearer to each other, all to all, except to Nello and Patrasche, with whom none now would have anything to do, and who 170 A DOG OF FLANDERS were left to fare as they might with the old paralyzed, bedridden man in the little cabin, whose fire was often low, and whose board was often without bread, for there was a buyer from Antwerp who had taken to drive his mule in of a day for the milk of the various dairies, and there were only three or four of the people who had refused his terms of purchase and remained faithful to the little green cart. So that the burden which Patrasche drew had become very light, and the centime- pieces in Nello's pouch had become, alas! very small likewise. The dog would stop, as usual, at all the familiar gates which were now closed to him, and look up at them with wistful, mute appeal; and it cost the neighbors a pang to shut their doors and their hearts, and let Pa- trasche draw his cart on again, empty. Nevertheless, they did it, for they desired to please Baas Cogez. VII Noel was close at hand. The weather was very wild and cold. The snow was six feet deep, and the ice was firm enough to bear oxen and men upon it everywhere. At this season the little village was always gay and cheerful. At the poorest dwelling there were possets and cakes, joking and danc- ing, sugared saints and gilded Jesus. The merry Flem- ish bells jingled everywhere on the horses; everywhere within doors some well-filled soup-pot sang and smoked over the stove; and everywhere over the snow without laughing maidens pattered in bright kerchiefs and stout 171 MODERN STORIES kirtles, going to and from the mass. Only in the little hut it was very dark and very cold. Nello and Patrasche were left utterly alone, for one night in the week before the Christmas Day death en- tered there, and took away from life forever old Jehan Daas, who had never known of life aught save its poverty and its pains. He had long been half dead, incapable of any movement except a feeble gesture, and powerless for anything beyond a gentle word; and yet his loss fell on them both with a great horror in it; they mourned him passionately. He had passed away from them in his sleep, and when in the gray dawn they learned their be- reavement, unutterable solitude and desolation seemed to close around them. He had long been only a poor, feeble, paralyzed old man, who could not raise a hand in their defense; but he had loved them well; his smile had always welcomed their return. They mourned for him unceasingly, refusing to be comforted, as in the white winter day they followed the deal shell that held his body to the nameless grave by the little gray church. They were his only mourners, these two whom he had left friendless upon earth, — the young boy and the old dog. "Surely, he will relent now and let the poor lad come hither?" thought the miller's wife, glancing at her hus- band where he smoked by the hearth. Baas Cogez knew her thought, but he hardened his heart, and would not unbar his door as the little, humble funeral went by. "The boy is a beggar," he said to himself; "he shall not be about Alois." The woman dared not say anything aloud, but when 172 A DOG OF FLANDERS the grave was closed and the mourners had gone, she put a wreath of immortelles into Alois's hands and bade her go and lay it reverently on the dark, unmarked mound where the snow was displaced. Nello and Patrasche went home with broken hearts. But even of that poor, melancholy, cheerless home they were denied the consolation. There was a month's rent overdue for their little home, and when Nello had paid the last sad service to the dead he had not a coin left. He went and begged grace of the owner of the hut, a cobbler who went every Sunday night to drink his pint of wine and smoke with Baas Cogez. The cobbler would grant no mercy. He was a harsh, miserly man, and loved money. He claimed in default of his rent every stick and stone, every pot and pan, in the hut, and bade Nello and Patrasche be out of it on the morrow. Now, the cabin was lowly enough, and in some sense miserable enough, and yet their hearts clove to it with a great affection. They had been so happy there, and in the summer, with its clambering vine and its flower- ing beans, it was so pretty and bright in the midst of the sun-lighted fields ! Their life in it had been full of labor and privation, and, yet they had been so well content, so gay of heart, running together to meet the old man's never-failing smile of welcome! All night long the boy and the dog sat by the fireless hearth in the darkness, drawn close together for warmth and sorrow. Their bodies were insensible to the cold, but their hearts seemed frozen in them. When the morning broke over the white, chill earth, it was the morning of Christmas Eve. With a shudder, 173 MODERN STORIES Nello clasped close to him his only friend, while his tears fell hot and fast on the dog's frank forehead. "Let us go, Patrasche, — dear, dear Patrasche," he mur- mured. "We will not wait to be kicked out: let us go." Patrasche had no will but his, and they went sadly, side by side, out from the little place which was so dear to them both, and in which every humble, homely thing was to them precious and beloved. Patrasche drooped his head wearily as he passed by his own green cart; it was no longer his, — it had to go with the rest to pay the rent, and his brass harness lay idle and glittering on the snow. The dog could have lain down beside it and died for very heart-sickness as he went, but whilst the lad lived and needed him Patrasche would not yield and give way. They took the old accustomed road into Antwerp. The day had yet scarce more than dawned, most of the shutters were still closed, but some of the villagers were about. They took no notice whilst the dog and the boy passed by them. At one door Nello paused and looked wistfully within: his grandfather had done many a kindly turn in neighbor's service to the people who dwelt there. , "Would you give Patrasche a crust ? " he said timidly. "He is old, and he has had nothing since last forenoon." The woman shut the door hastily, murmuring some vague saying about wheat and rye being very dear that season. The boy and the dog went on again wearily: they asked no more. By slow and painful ways they reached Antwerp as the chimes tolled ten. 174 A DOG OF FLANDERS "If I had anything about me I could sell to get him bread!" thought Nello, but he had nothing except the wisp of linen and serge that covered him, and his pair of wooden shoes. Patrasche understood, and nestled his nose into the lad's hand, as though to pray him not to be disquieted for any woe or want of his. The winner of the drawing prize was to be proclaimed at noon, and to the public building where he had left his treasure Nello made his way. On the steps and in the entrance-hall was a crowd of youths, — some of his age, some older, all with parents or relatives or friends. His heart was sick with fear as he went amongst them, holding Patrasche close to him. The great bells of the city clashed out the hour of noon with brazen clamor. The doors of the inner hall were opened; the eager, panting throng rushed in; it was known that the se- lected picture would be raised above the rest upon a wooden dais. A mist obscured Nello 's sight, his head swam, his limbs almost failed him. When his vision cleared he saw the drawing raised on high : it was not his own ! A slow, sonorous voice was proclaiming aloud that victory had been adjudged to Stephan Kiesslinger, born in the burgh of Antwerp, son of a wharfinger in that town. When Nello recovered his consciousness he was lying on the stones without, and Patrasche was trying with every art he knew to call him back to life. In the dis- tance a throng of the youths of Antwerp were shouting around their successful comrade, and escorting him with acclamations to his home upon the quay. 175 MODERN STORIES The boy staggered to his feet and drew the dog into his embrace. "It is all over, dear Patrasche," he mur- mured, — "all over!" He rallied himself as best he could, for he was weak from fasting, and retraced his steps to the village. Pa- trasche paced by his side with his head drooping and his old limbs feeble from hunger and sorrow. VIII The snow was falling fast; a keen hurricane blew from the north; it was bitter as death on the plains. It took them long to traverse the familiar path, and the bells were sounding four of the clock as they approached the hamlet. Suddenly Patrasche paused, arrested by a scent in the snow, scratched, whined, and drew out with his teeth a small case of brown leather. He held it up to Nello in the darkness. Where they were there stood a little Calvary, and a lamp burned dully under the cross: the boy mechanically turned the case to the light; on it was the name of Baas Cogez, and within it were notes for two thousand francs. The sight roused the lad a little from his stupor. He thrust it in his shirt, and stroked Patrasche and drew him onward. The dog looked up wistfully in his face. Nello made straight for the mill-house, and went to the house-door and struck on its panels. The miller's wife opened it weeping, with little Alois clinging close to her skirts. "Is it thee, thou poor lad ?" she said kindly through her tears. "Get thee gone ere the Baas see thee. We are in sore trouble to-night. He is out seeking 176 A DOG OF FLANDERS for a power of money that he has let fall riding home- ward, and in this snow he never will find it; and God knows it will go nigh to ruin us. It is Heaven's own judgment for the things we have done to thee." Nello put the note-case in her hand and called Pa- trasche within the house. "Patrasche found the money to-night," he said quickly. "Tell Baas Cogez so; I think he will not deny the dog shelter and food in his old age. Keep him from pursuing me, and I pray of you to be good to him." Ere either woman or dog knew what he meant he had stooped and kissed Patrasche : then closed the door hurriedly, and disappeared in the gloom of the fast- falling night. The woman and the child stood speechless with joy and fear : Patrasche vainly spent the fury of his anguish against the iron-bound oak of the barred house-door. They did not dare unbar the door and let him forth: they tried all they could to solace him. They brought him sweet cakes and juicy meats; they tempted him with the best they had; they tried to lure him to abide by the warmth of the hearth; but it was of no avail. Patrasche refused to be comforted or to stir from the barred portal. It was six o'clock when from an opposite entrance the miller at last came, jaded and broken, into his wife's presence. "It is lost forever," he said, with an ashen cheek and a quiver in his stern voice. "We have looked with lanterns everywhere : it is gone, — the little maid- en's portion and all!" His wife put the money into his hand, and told him 177 MODERN STORIES how it had come to her. The strong man sank trem- bling into a seat and covered his face, ashamed and al- most afraid. "I have been cruel to the lad," he muttered at length; "I deserved not to have good at his hands." Little Alois, taking courage, crept close to her father and nestled against him her fair curly head. "Nello may come here again, father?" she whispered. "He may come to-morrow as he used to do?" The miller pressed her in his arms : his hard, sunburnt face was very pale, and his mouth trembled. "Surely, surely," he answered his child. "He shall bide here on Christmas Day, and any other day he will. God help- ing me, I will make amends to the boy, — I will make amends." Little Alois kissed him in gratitude and joy, then slid from his knees and ran to where the dog kept watch by the door. "And to-night I may feast Patrasche?" she cried, in a child's thoughtless glee. Her father bent his head gravely: "Ay, ay, let the dog have the best;" for the stern old man was moved and shaken to his heart's depths. It was Christmas Eve, and the mill-house was filled with oak logs and squares of turf, with cream and honey, with meat and bread, and the rafters were hung with wreaths of evergreen, and the Calvary and the cuckoo clock looked out from a mass of holly. There were little paper lanterns too for Alois, and toys of various fash- ions and sweetmeats in bright-pictured papers. There were light and warmth and abundance everywhere, and the child would fain have made the dog a guest hon- ored and feasted. 178 A DOG OF FLANDERS But Patrasche would neither lie in the warmth nor share in the cheer. Famished he was and very cold, but without Nello he would partake neither of comfort nor food. Against all temptation he was proof, and close against the door he leaned always, watching only for a means of escape. "He wants the lad," said Baas Cogez. "Good dog! good dog ! I will go over to the lad the first thing at day- dawn." For no one but Patrasche knew that Nello had left the hut, and no one but Patrasche divined that Nello had gone to face starvation and misery alone. The mill kitchen was very warm; great logs crackled and flamed on the hearth ; neighbors came in for a glass of wine and a slice of the fat goose baking for supper. xAlois, gleeful and sure of her playmate back on the morrow, bounded and sang and tossed back her yellow hair. Baas Cogez, in the fullness of his heart, smiled on her through moistened eyes, and spoke of the way in which he would befriend her favorite companion; the house-mother sat with calm, contented face at the spin- ning-wheel; the cuckoo in the clock chirped mirthful hours. Amidst it all Patrasche was bidden with a thou- sand words of welcome to tarry there a cherished guest. But neither peace nor plenty could allure him where Nello was not. When the supper smoked on the board, and the voices were loudest and gladdest, and the Christ-child brought choicest gifts to Alois, Patrasche, watching always an occasion, glided out when the door was un- latched by a careless newcomer, and as swiftly as his weak and tired limbs would bear him sped over the * 179 MODERN STORIES »now in the bitter, black night. He had only one thought, ■ — to follow Nello. A human friend might have paused for the pleasant meal, the cheery warmth, the cosy slum- ber; but that was not the friendship of Patrasche. He remembered a bygone time, when an old man and a little child had found him sick unto death in the way- side ditch. Snow had fallen freshly all the evening long; it was now nearly ten; the trail of the boy's footsteps was almost obliterated. It took Patrasche long to discover any scent. When at last he found it, it was lost again quickly, and lost and recovered, and again lost and again recovered, a hundred times or more. The night was very wild. The lamps under the way- side crosses were blown out; the roads were sheets of ice; the impenetrable darkness hid every trace of hab- itations; there was no living thing abroad. All the cattle were housed, and in all the huts and homesteads men and women rejoiced and feasted. There was only Patrasche out in the cruel cold, — old and famished and full of pain, but with the strength and the patience of a great love to sustain him in his search. The trail of Nello's steps, faint and obscure as it was under the new snow, went straightly along the accus- tomed tracks into Antwerp. It was past midnight when Patrasche traced it over the boundaries of the town and into the narrow, tortuous, gloomy streets. It was all quite dark in the town, save where some light gleamed ruddily through the crevices of house shutters, or some group went homeward with lanterns, chanting drinking songs. The streets were all white with ice; the high 180 A DOG OF FLANDERS walls and roofs loomed black against them. There was scarce a sound save the riot of the winds down the pas- sages as they tossed the creaking signs and shook the tall lamp-irons. So many passers-by had trodden through and through the snow, so many diverse paths had crossed and re- crossed each other, that the dog had a hard task to re- tain any hold on the track he followed. But he kept on his way, though the cold pierced him to the bone, and the jagged ice cut his feet, and the hunger in his body gnawed like a rat's teeth. He kept on his way, a poor gaunt, shivering thing, and by long patience traced the steps he loved into the very heart of the burgh and up to the steps of the great cathedral. "He is gone to the things that he loved," thought Patrasche: he could not understand, but he was full of sorrow and of pity for the art passion that to him was so incomprehensible and yet so sacred. The portals of the cathedral were unclosed after the midnight mass. Some heedlessness in the custodians, too eager to go home and feast or sleep, or too drowsy to know whether they turned the keys aright, had left one of the doors unlocked. By that accident the foot- falls Patrasche sought had passed through into the building, leaving the white marks of snow upon the dark stone floor. By that slender white thread, frozen as it fell, he was guided through the intense silence, through the immensity of the vaulted space, — guided straight to the gates of the chancel, and, stretched there upon the stones, he found Nello. He crept up and touched the face of the boy. "Didst thou dream that 181 MODERN STORIES I should be faithless and forsake thee ? I — a dog ? " said that mute caress. The lad raised himself with a low cry and clasped him close. "Let us lie down and die together," he murmured. "Men have no need of us, and we are all alone." In answer, Patrasche crept closer yet, and laid his head upon the young boy's breast. The great tears stood in his brown, sad eyes: not for himself, — for himself he was happy. They lay close together in the piercing cold. The blasts that blew over the Flemish dikes from the north- ern seas were like waves of ice, which froze every living thing they touched. The interior of the immense vault of stone in which they were was even more bitterly chill than the snow-covered plains without. Now and then a bat moved in the shadows, — now and then a gleam of light came on the ranks of carven figures. Under the Rubens they lay together quite still, and soothed almost into a dreaming slumber by the numb- ing narcotic of the cold. Together they dreamed of the old glad days when they had chased each other through the flowering grasses of the summer meadows, or sat hidden in the tall bulrushes by the water's side, watch- ing the boats go seaward in the sun. Suddenly through the darkness a great white radi- ance streamed through the vastness of the aisles; the moon, that was at her height, had broken through the clouds, the snow had ceased to fall, the light reflected from the snow without was clear as the light of dawn. It fell through the arches full upon the two pictures 182 A DOG OF FLANDERS above, from which the boy on his entrance had flung back the veil; the Elevation and the Descent from the Cross were for one instant visible. Nello rose to his feet and stretched his arms to them : the tears of a passionate ecstasy glistened on the pale- ness of his face. "I have seen them at last!" he cried aloud. "O God, it is enough!" His limbs failed under him, and he sank upon his knees, still gazing upward at the majesty that he adored. For a few brief moments the light illumined the divine visions that had been denied to him so long, — light clear and sweet and strong as though it streamed from the throne of Heaven. Then suddenly it passed away: once more a great darkness covered the face of Christ. The arms of the boy drew close again the body of the dog. "We shall see His face — there" he mur- mured; "and He will not part us, I think." On the morrow, by the chancel of the cathedral, the people of Antwerp found them both. They were both dead: the cold of the night had frozen into stillness alike the young life and the old. When the Christmas morning broke and the priests came to the temple, they saw them lying thus on the stones together. Above, the veils were drawn back from the great visions of Rubens, and the fresh rays of the sunrise touched the thorn- crowned head of the Christ. As the day grew on there came an old, hard-featured man who wept as women weep. "I was cruel to the lad," he muttered, "and now I would have made amends — yea, to the half of my substance — and he should have been to me as a son." 183 MODERN STORIES There came also, as the day grew apace, a painter who had fame in the world, and who was liberal of hand and of spirit. "I seek one who should have had the prize yesterday had worth won," he said to the people, — "a boy of rare promise and genius. An old wood- cutter on a fallen tree at eventide, — that was all his theme. But there was greatness for the future in it. I would fain find him, and take him with me and teach him Art." And a little child with curling fair hair, sobbing bit- terly as she clung to her father's arm, cried aloud, "O Nello, come ! We have all ready for thee. The Christ- child's hands are full of gifts, and the old piper will play for us ; and the mother says thou shalt stay by the hearth and burn nuts with us all the Noel week long, — yes, even to the Feast of the Kings ! And Patrasche will be so happy! O Nello, wake and come!" But the young pale face, turned upward to the light of the great Rubens with a smile upon its mouth, an- swered them all, "It is too late." For the sweet, sonorous bells went ringing through the frost, and the sunlight shone upon the plains of snow, and the populace trooped gay and glad through the streets, but Nello and Patrasche no more asked charity at their hands. All they needed now Antwerp gave unbidden. Death had been more pitiful to them than longer life would have been. It had taken the one in the loyalty of love, and the other in the innocence of faith, from a world which for love has no recompense and for faith no fulfillment. 184 A DOG OF FLANDERS All their lives they had been together, and in their deaths they were not divided; for when they were found, the arms of the boy were folded too closely around the dog to be severed without violence, and the people of their little village, contrite and ashamed, im- plored a special grace for them, and, making them one grave, laid them to rest there side by side — forever ! RIP VAN WINKLE By Washington Irving WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hud- son must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appa- lachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, pro- duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good 186 RIP VAN WINKLE Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there w,ere some of the houses of the original settlers stand- ing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the mar- tial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are ren- dered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of do- mestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and 187 MODERN STORIES never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with im- punity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insu- perable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences; the women of the vil- lage, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to do- ing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 188 RIP VAN WINKLE In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces his cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so that though his patri- monial estate had dwindled away under his manage- ment, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night her tongue was incessantly going, and every- 189 MODERN STORIES thing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of reply- ing to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoul- ders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The mo- ment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side- long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flour- ish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 190 RIP VAN WINKLE village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking list- lessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound dis- cussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the con- tents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dic- tionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his ad- herents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his 191 MODERN STORIES mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud- denly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would some- times seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym- pathized as a fellow sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the high- est parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the af- ternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herb- 192 RIP VAN WINKLE age, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the re- flection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bend- 193 MODERN STORIES ing under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion : a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually reliev- ing one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for a moment, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Pass- ing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular pre- cipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During 194 RIP VAN WINKLE the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence ; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity. On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of won- der presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor- mous breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten counte- nance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high- heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish paint- ing in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of 195 MODERN STORIES pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, un- couth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His com- panion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were over- powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 196 RIP VAN WINKLE liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the woe-begone party at ninepins — the flagon — "Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ?" He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roisters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his com- panion had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and some- 197 MODERN STORIES times tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tum- bling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sport- ing high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the moun- tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur- prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accus- tomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the 198 RIP VAN WINKLE same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the win- dows, — everything was strange. His mind now mis- gave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!" It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!" He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 199 MODERN STORIES Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso- lateness overcame all his connubial fears; he called loudly for his wife and children ; the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then again all was silence. He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle. , ' Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singu- lar assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, how- ever, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large char- acters, General Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bus- tling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accus- tomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 200 RIP VAN WINKLE double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of to- bacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an an- cient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-look- ing fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was ha- ranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members of Congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side he voted." Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fel- low pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, in- quired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Demo- crat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentle- man, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village." — "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, some- 201 MODERN STORIES what dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! " Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-impor- tant man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came there for, and whom he was seeking ? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well — who are they ? — name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where 's Nicholas Vedder ? " There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice: "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher?" "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war: some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point ; others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" "He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gen- eral, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 202 RIP VAN WINKLE in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat- ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : war — Congress — Stony Point; he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, lean- ing against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- self, as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com- pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat de- manded who he was, and what was his name. "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself — I 'm somebody else — that 's me yonder — no — that 's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the moun- tain, and they 've changed my gun, and everything 's changed, and I 'm changed, and I can't tell what 's my name, or who I am!" The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mis- chief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded 203 MODERN STORIES man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, fright- ened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. "Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it 's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since, — his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask; and he put it with a faltering voice: — "Where's your mother?" "Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New Eng- land peddler." There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough, it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself] 204 RIP VAN WINKLE Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long years ? " Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head through- out the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recol- lected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half Moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enter- prise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine- pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself 205 MODERN STORIES had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to compre- hend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impres- 206 RIP VAN WINKLE sion on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes, which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. ALICE AND THE TWO QUEENS By Charles Lutwidge Dodgson ("Lewis Carroll ") ALICE threw herself down to rest on a lawn as soft as moss, with little flower-beds dotted about it here and there. "Oh, how glad I am to get here! And what is this on my head ? " she exclaimed in a tone of dismay, as she put her hands up to something very heavy, that fitted tight all round her head. "But how can it have got there without my knowing it ? - she said to herself, as she lifted it off, and set it on her lap to make out what it could possibly be. It was a golden crown. "Well, this is grand ! " said Alice. "I never ex- pected I should be a Queen so soon — and I '11 tell you what it is, your Majesty," she went on, in a severe tone (she was always rather fond of scolding herself), " it '11 never do for you to be lolling about on the grass like that! Queens have to be dignified, you know ! " So she got up and walked about — rather stiffly just at first, as she was afraid that the crown might come off; but she comforted herself with the thought that there was nobody to see her. "And if I really am a Queen," she said, as she sat down again, "I shall be able to manage it quite well in time." 208 ALICE AND THE TWO QUEENS Everything was happening so oddly that she did n't feel a bit surprised at finding the Red Queen and the White Queen sitting close to her, one on each side : she would have liked very much to ask them how they came there, but she feared it would not be quite civil. How- ever, there would be no harm, she thought, in asking if the game was over. "Please, would you tell me" — she began, looking timidly at the Red Queen. "Speak when you're spoken to!" the Queen sharply interrupted her. "But if everybody obeyed that rule," said Alice, who was always ready for a little argument, "and if you only spoke when you were spoken to, and the other person always waited for you to begin, you see nobody would ever say anything, so that " — "Ridiculous!" cried the Queen. "Why, don't you see, child " — here she broke off with a frown, and, after thinking for a minute, suddenly changed the sub- ject of the conversation. "What do you mean by 'If you really are a Queen ' ? What right have you to call yourself so? You can't be a Queen, you know, till you've passed the proper examination. And the sooner we begin it, the better." "I only said 'if '!" poor Alice pleaded in a piteous tone. The two queens looked at each other, and the Red Queen remarked, with a little shudder, "She says she only said 'if "— "But she said a great deal more than that!" the White Queen moaned, wringing her hands. "Oh, ever so much more than that!" 209 MODERN STORIES "So you did, you know," the Red Queen said to Alice. "Always speak the truth — think before you speak — and write it down afterwards." "I'm sure I didn't mean" — Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen interrupted her impatiently. "That 's just what I complain of! You should have meant! What do you suppose is the use of a child without any meaning ? Even a joke should have some meaning — and a child 's more important than a joke, I hope. You could n't deny that, even if you tried with both hands." "I don't deny things with my hands," Alice objected. "Nobody said you did," said the Red Queen. "I said you could n't if you tried." "She 's in that state of mind," said the White Queen, "that she wants to deny something — only she doesn't know what to deny!" "A nasty, vicious temper," the Red Queen remarked; and then there was an uncomfortable silence for a min- ute or two. The Red Queen broke the silence by saying to the White Queen, "I invite you to Alice's dinner-party this afternoon." The White Queen smiled feebly, and said, "And I invite you." "I didn't know I was to have a party at all," said Alice; "but if there is to be one, I think I ought to in- vite the guests." "We gave you the opportunity of doing it," the Red Queen remarked; "but I dare say you've not had many lessons in manners yet ? " 210 ALICE AND THE TWO QUEENS "Manners are not taught in lessons," said Alice. " Lessons teach you to do sums, and things of that sort." "Can you do Addition?" the White Queen asked. "What 's one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one ? " "I don't know," said Alice. "I lost count." "She can't do Addition," the Red Queen interrupted. "Can you do Subtraction? Take nine from eight." "Nine from eight I can't, you know," Alice replied very readily; "but" — "She can't do Subtraction," said the White Queen. "Can you do Division? Divide a loaf by a knife — what 's the answer to that ?" "I suppose" — Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen answered for her. "Bread-and-butter, of course. Try another Subtraction sum. Take a bone from a dog: what remains?" Alice considered. "The bone wouldn't remain, of course, if I took it — and the dog wouldn't remain: it would come to bite me — and I 'm sure I should n't remain ! " "Then you think nothing would remain?" said the Red Queen. "I think that 's the answer." "Wrong, as usual," said the Red Queen*, "the dog's temper would remain." "But I don't see how" — " Why, look here ! " the Red Queen cried. " The dog would lose its temper, wouldn't it?" "Perhaps it would," Alice replied cautiously. 211 MODERN STORIES "Then if the dog went away, its temper would re- main!" the Queen exclaimed triumphantly. Alice said, as gravely as she could, "They might go different ways." But she couldn't help thinking to herself, "What dreadful nonsense we are talking!" "She can't do sums a bit!" the queens said together, with great emphasis. "Can you do sums?" Alice said, turning suddenly on the White Queen, for she did n't like being found fault with so much. The Queen gasped and shut her eyes. "I can do Addition," she said, "if you give me time; but I can't do Subtraction under any circumstances!" "Of course you know your A B C?" said the Red Queen. " To be sure I do," said Alice. "So do I," the White Queen whispered: "we'll often say it over together, dear. And I '11 tell you a secret — I can read words of one letter! Isn't that grand ? However, don't be discouraged. You '11 come to it in time." Here the Red Queen began again. "Can you answer useful questions?" she said. "How is bread made?" " I know that ! " Alice cried eagerly. ' ' You take some flour" — "Where do you pick the flower?" the White Queen asked. "In a garden or in the hedges?" "Well, it isn't picked at all," Alice explained: "it's ground " — " How many acres of ground ? " said the White Queen. "You mustn't leave out so many things." 212 ALICE AND THE TWO QUEENS "Fan her head!" the Red Queen anxiously inter- rupted. "She'll be feverish after so much thinking." So they set to work and fanned her with bunches of leaves, till she had to beg them to leave off, it blew her hair about so. "She's all right again now," said the Red Queen. "Do you know Languages? What's the French for fiddle-de-dee?" "Fiddle-de-dee 's not English," Alice replied gravely. "Who ever said it was?" said the Red Queen. Alice thought she saw a way out of the difficulty, this time. "If you '11 tell me what language 'fiddle-de- dee ' is, I '11 tell you the French for it ! " she exclaimed triumphantly. But the Red Queen drew herself up rather stiffly, and said, "Queens never make bargains." "I wish queens never asked questions," Alice thought to herself. "Don't let us quarrel," the White Queen said, in an anxious tone. "What is the cause of lightning?" "The cause of lightning," Alice said very decidedly, for she felt quite certain about this, "is the thunder — ■ no, no!" she hastily corrected herself. "I meant the other way." "It's too late to correct it," said the Red Queen: "when you 've once said a thing, that fixes it, and you must take the consequences." " Which reminds me " — the White Queen said, look- ing down and nervously clasping and unclasping her hands, "we had such a thunderstorm last Tuesday — » I mean one of the last set of Tuesdays, you know." 213 MODERN STORIES Alice was puzzled. "In our country," she remarked, "there 's only one day at a time." The Red Queen said, "That's a poor thin way of doing things. Now here, we mostly have days and nights two or three at a time, and sometimes in the winter we take as many as five nights together — for warmth, you know." "Are Hve nights warmer than one night, then?" Alice ventured to ask. "Five times as warm, of course." "But they should be five times as cold, by the same rule" — "Just so!" cried the Red Queen. "Five times as warm, and five times as cold — just as I 'm five times as rich as you are, and five times as clever!" Alice sighed and gave it up. "It's exactly like a riddle with no answer!" she thought. "Humpty Dumpty saw it too," the White Queen went on in a low voice, more as if she were talking to herself. "He came to the door with a corkscrew in his hand" — "What did he want?" said the Red Queen. "He said he would come in," the White Queen went on, "because he was looking for a hippopotamus. Now, as it happened, there was n't such a thing in the house, that morning." "Is there generally?" Alice asked, in an astonished tone. "Well, only on Thursdays," said the Queen. "I know what he came for," said Alice: "he wanted to punish the fish, because" — 214 ALICE AND THE TWO QUEENS Here the White Queen began again. "It was such a thunderstorm, you can't think!" ("She never could, you know," said the Red Queen.) "And part of the roof came off, and ever so much thunder got in — and it went rolling round the room in great lumps — and knocking over the tables and things — till I was so frightened, I couldn't remember my own name!" Alice thought to herself, "I never should try to re- member my name in the middle of an accident ! Where would be the use of it ? " but she did not say this aloud, for fear of hurting the poor Queen's feelings. "Your Majesty must excuse her," the Red Queen said to Alice, taking one of the White Queen's hands in her own, and gently stroking it: "she means well, but she can't help saying foolish things, as a general rule." The White Queen looked timidly at Alice, who felt she ought to say something kind, but really couldn't think of anything at the moment. "She never was really well brought up," the Red Queen went on: "but it's amazing how good-tempered she is ! Pat her on the head, and see how pleased she '11 be!" But this was more than Alice had courage to do. "A little kindness — and putting her hair in papers — would do wonders with her" — The White Queen gave a deep sigh, and laid her head on Alice's shoulder. "I am so sleepy! " she moaned. "She's tired, poor thing!" said the Red Queen. "Smooth her hair — lend her your nightcap — and sing her a soothing lullaby." 215 MODERN STORIES "I haven't got a nightcap with me," said Alice, as she tried to obey the first direction ; "and I don't know any soothing lullabies." "I must do it myself, then," said the Red Queen, and she began : — "Hush-a-by, lady, in Alice's lap! Till the feast 's ready, we 've time for a nap. When the feast 's over, we '11 go to the ball — Red Queen, and White Queen, and Alice, and all ! "And now you know the words," she added, as she put her head down on Alice's other shoulder, "just sing it through to me. I'm getting sleepy, too." In another moment both queens were fast asleep, and snoring loud. THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE By Bret Harte I FIRST knew her as the Queen of the Pirate Isle. To the best of my recollection she had no reason- able right to that title. She was only nine years old, inclined to plumpness and good humor, deprecated violence, and had never been to sea. Need it be added that she did not live in an island and that her name was Polly ? Perhaps I ought to explain that she had already known other experiences of a purely imaginative char- acter. Part of her existence had been passed as a Beg- gar Child, — solely indicated by a shawl tightly folded round her shoulders, and chills; as a Schoolmistress, unnecessarily severe; as a Preacher, singularly personal in his remarks ; and once, after reading one of Cooper's novels, as an Indian Maiden. This was, I believe, the only instance when she had borrowed from another's fiction. Most of the characters that she assumed for days and sometimes weeks at a time were purely origi- nal in conception; some so much so as to be vague to the general understanding. I remember that her per- sonation of a certain Mrs. Smith, whose individuality was supposed to be sufficiently represented by a sun- bonnet worn wrong side before and a weekly addition to her family, was never perfectly appreciated by her own 217 MODERN STORIES circle, although she lived the character for a month. Another creation known as "The Proud Lady" — a being whose excessive and unreasonable haughtiness was so pronounced as to give her features the expres- sion of extreme nausea — caused her mother so much alarm that it had to be abandoned. This was easily effected. The Proud Lady was understood to have died. Indeed, most of Polly's impersonations were got rid of in this way, although it by no means prevented their subsequent reappearance. "I thought Mrs. Smith was dead," remonstrated her mother, at the posthumous appearance of that lady with a new infant. "She was buried alive and kem to!" said Polly, with a melancholy air. Fortunately, the representation of a resuscitated person required such extraordinary acting, and was, through some uncertainty of conception, so closely al- lied in facial expression to the Proud Lady, that Mrs. Smith was resuscitated only for a day. The origin of the title of the Queen of the Pirate Isle may be briefly stated as follows : — An hour after luncheon, one day, Polly, Hickory Hunt, her cousin, and Wan Lee, a Chinese page, were crossing the nursery floor in a Chinese junk. The sea was calm and the sky cloudless. Any change in the weather was as unexpected as it is in books. Suddenly a West Indian hurricane, purely local in character and unfelt anywhere else, struck Master Hickory and threw him overboard, whence, wildly swimming for his life and carrying Polly on his back, he eventually reached a desert island in the closet. Here the rescued party put up a tent made of a tablecloth providentially snatched 218 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE from the raging billows, and, from two o'clock until four, passed six weeks on the island, supported only by a piece of candle, a box of matches, and two pep- permint lozenges. It was at this time that it became necessary to account for Polly's existence among them, and this was only effected by an alarming sacrifice of their morality: Hickory and Wan Lee instantly became Pirates, and at once elected Polly as their Queen. The royal duties, which seemed to be purely maternal, con- sisted in putting the Pirates to bed after a day of rapine and bloodshed, and in feeding them with licorice water through a quill in a small bottle. Limited as her func- tions were, Polly performed them with inimitable grav- ity and unquestioned sincerity. Even when her com- panions sometimes hesitated from actual hunger or fatigue and forgot their guilty part, she never faltered. It was her real existence; her other life of being washed, dressed, and put to bed at certain hours by her mother was the illusion. Doubt and skepticism came at last, — and came from Wan Lee ! Wan Lee, of all creatures ! Wan Lee, whose silent, stolid, mechanical performance of a pi- rate's duties — a perfect imitation like all his household work — had been their one delight and fascination ! It was just after the exciting capture of a merchant- man, with the indiscriminate slaughter of all on board, — a spectacle on which the round blue eyes of the plump Polly had gazed with royal and maternal tolerance, — and they were burying the booty, two tablespoons and a thimble, in the corner of the closet, when Wan Lee stolidly rose. 219 MODERN STORIES "Melican boy pleenty foolee! Melican boy no Pilat!" said the little Chinaman, substituting "IV for "r's" after his usual fashion. "Wotcher say?" said Hickory, reddening with sud- den confusion. "Melican boy's papa heap lickee him — s'pose him leal Pilat," continued Wan Lee doggedly. "Melican boy Pilat inside housee; Chinee boy Pilat outside housee. First chop Pilat." Staggered by this humiliating statement, Hickory re- covered himself in character. "Ah! Ho!" he shrieked, dancing wildly on one leg, "mutiny and splordina- shun! 'Way with him to the yard-arm." "Yald-alm — heap foolee! Allee same clothes-horse for washee washee." It was here necessary for the Pirate Queen to assert her authority, which, as I have before stated, was some- what confusingly maternal. "Go to bed instantly without your supper," she said seriously. "Really, I never saw such bad pirates. Say your prayers, and see that you're up early to church to-morrow." It should be explained that in deference to Polly's proficiency as a preacher, and probably as a relief to their uneasy consciences, Divine Service had always been held on the Island. But Wan Lee continued: — "Me no shabbee Pilat inside housee; me shabbee Pilat outside housee. S'pose you lun away longside Chinee boy — Chinee boy makee you Pilat." Hickory softly scratched his leg, while a broad, bashful smile almost closed his small eyes. "Wot?" he asked. 220 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE "Mebbee you too frightened to lun away. Melican boy's papa heap lickee." This last infamous suggestion fired the corsair's blood. "D'yar think we daresent?" said Hickory desperately, but with an uneasy glance at Polly. "I '11 show yer to-morrow." The entrance of Polly's mother at this moment put an end to Polly's authority and dispersed the pirate band, but left Wan Lee's proposal and Hickory's rash acceptance ringing in the ears of the Pirate Queen. That evening she was unusually silent. She would have taken Bridget, her nurse, into her confidence, but this would have involved a long explanation of her own feelings, from which, like all imaginative children, she shrank. She, however, made preparation for the proposed flight by settling in her mind which of her two dolls she would take. A wooden creature with easy-going knees and movable hair seemed to be more fit for hard service and any indiscriminate scalping that might turn up hereafter. At supper, she timidly asked a question of Bridget. "Did ye ever hear the loikes uv that, ma'am," said the Irish handmaid, with affectionate pride. "Shure the darlint's head is filled noight and day with ancient history. She 's after ask- ing me now if queens ever run away!" To Polly's re- morseful confusion here her good father, equally proud of her precocious interest and his own knowledge, at once interfered with an unintelligible account of the abdication of various queens in history until Polly's head ached again. Well meant as it was, it only set- tled in the child's mind that she must keep the awful 221 MODERN STORIES secret to herself and that no one could understand her. The eventful day dawned without any unusual sign of importance. It was one of the cloudless summer days of the Californian foothills, bright, dry, and as the morning advanced, hot in the white sunshine. The actual, prosaic house in which the Pirates apparently lived was a mile from a mining settlement, on a beauti- ful ridge of pine woods sloping gently towards a valley on the one side, and on the other falling abruptly into a dark, deep, olive gulf of pine trees, rocks, and patches of red soil. Beautiful as the slope was, looking over to the distant snow peaks which seemed to be in another world than theirs, the children found a greater attrac- tion in the fascinating depths of a mysterious gulf, or cafion, as it was called, whose very name filled their ears with a weird music. To creep to the edge of the cliff, to sit upon the brown branches of some fallen pine, and, putting aside the dried tassels, to look down upon the backs of wheeling hawks that seemed to hang in mid-air, was a never-failing delight. Here Polly would try to trace the winding red ribbon of road that was continually losing itself among the dense pines of the opposite mountains; here she would listen to the far-off strokes of a woodman's axe, or the rattle of some heavy wagon, miles away, crossing the pebbles of a dried-up watercourse. Here, too, the prevailing colors of the mountains, red and white and green, most showed themselves. There were no frowning rocks to depress the children's fancy, but everywhere along the ridge pure white quartz bared itself through the red earth like THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE smiling teeth; the very pebbles they played with were streaked with shining mica like bits of looking-glass. The distance was always green and summer-like; but the color they most loved, and which was most famil- iar to them, was the dark red of the ground beneath their feet everywhere. It showed itself in the roadside bushes; its red dust pervaded the leaves of the over- hanging laurel; it colored their shoes and pinafores; I am afraid it was often seen in Indian-like patches on their faces and hands. That it may have often given a sanguinary tone to their fancies, I have every reason to believe. It was on this ridge that the three children gathered at ten o'clock that morning. An earlier flight had been impossible on account of Wan Lee being obliged to perform his regular duty of blacking the shoes of Polly and Hickory before breakfast, — a menial act which in the pure republic of childhood was never thought inconsistent with the loftiest piratical ambition. On the ridge they met one "Patsey," the son of a neighbor, sun-burned, broad-brimmed hatted, red-handed, like themselves. As there were afterwards some doubts ex- pressed whether he joined the Pirates of his own free will, or was captured by them, I endeavor to give the colloquy exactly as it occurred : — Patsey: "Hallo, fellers." The Pirates: "Hello!" Patsey: "Goin' to hunt bars? Dad seed a lot o' tracks at sun-up." The Pirates (hesitating): "No-o" — Patsey: "I am; know where I kin get a six-shooter ? " 223 MODERN STORIES The Pirates (almost ready to abandon piracy for bear-hunting, but preserving their dignity): "Can't! We've runn'd away for real pirates." Patsey: "Not for good!" The Queen (interposing with sad dignity and real tears in her round blue eyes): "Yes!" (slowly and shaking her head). "Can't go back again. Never! Never! Never! The — the — eye is cast!" Patsey (bursting with excitement) : "No-o! Sho'o! Wanter know." The Pirates (a little frightened themselves, but trem- ulous with gratified vanity): "The Perleese is on our track!" Patsey: "Lemme go with yer!" Hickory: "Wot '11 yer giv?" Patsey: "Pistol and er bananer." Hickory (with judicious prudence): "Let 's see 'em." Patsey was off like a shot; his bare little red feet trembling under him. In a few minutes he returned with an old-fashioned revolver known as one of "Allen's pepper-boxes" and a large banana. He was at once enrolled, and the banana eaten. As yet they had resolved on no definite nefarious plan. Hickory, looking down at Patsey 's bare feet, instantly took off his own shoes. This bold act sent a thrill through his companions. Wan Lee took off his cloth leggings, Polly removed her shoes and stockings, but, with royal foresight, tied them up in her handker- chief. The last link between them and civilization was broken. "Let's go to the Slumgullion." 224 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE "Slumgullion" was the name given by the miners to a certain soft, half-liquid mud, formed of the water and finely powdered earth that was carried off by the sluice-boxes during gold-washing, and eventually col- lected in a broad pool or lagoon before the outlet. There was a pool of this kind a quarter of a mile away, where there were "diggings" worked by Patsey's father, and thither they proceeded along the ridge in single file. When it was reached they solemnly began to wade in its viscid paint-like shallows. Possibly its unctuousness was pleasant to the touch; possibly there was a fasci- nation in the fact that their parents had forbidden them to go near it ; but probably the principal object of this performance was to produce a thick coating of mud on the feet and ankles, which, when dried in the sun, was supposed to harden the skin and render their shoes superfluous. It was also felt to be the first real step towards independence; they looked down at their en- sanguined extremities and recognized the impossibility of their ever again crossing (unwashed) the family threshold. Then they again hesitated. There was a manifest need of some well-defined piratical purpose. The last act was reckless and irretrievable, but it was vague. They gazed at each other. There was a stolid look of resigned and superior tolerance in Wan Lee's eyes. Polly's glance wandered down the side of the slope to the distant little tunnels or openings made by the miners, who were at work in the bowels of the moun- tain. "I 'd like to go into one of them funny holes," she said to herself, half aloud. 225 MODERN STORIES Wan Lee suddenly began to blink his eyes with un- wonted excitement. "Catchee tunnel — heap gold," he said quickly. "When manee come outside to catchee dinner — Pilats go inside catchee tunnel ! Shabbee ! Pilats catchee gold allee samee Melican man!" "And take perseshiun," said Hickory. "And hoist the pirate flag," said Patsey. "And build a fire, and cook, and have a family," said Polly. The idea was fascinating to the point of being irre- sistible. The eyes of the four children became rounder and rounder. They seized each other's hands and swung them backwards and forwards, occasionally lifting their legs in a solemn rhythmic movement known only to childhood. "It 's orful far off!" said Patsey, with a sudden look of dark importance. "Pap says it 's free miles on the road. Take all day ter get there." The bright faces were overcast. "Less go er slide!" said Hickory boldly. They approached the edge of the cliff. The "slide" was simply a sharp incline zigzagging down the side of the mountain, used for sliding goods and provisions from the summit to the tunnel-men at the different openings below. The continual traffic had gradually worn a shallow gulley half filled with earth and gravel into the face of the mountain, which checked the momentum of the goods in their downward passage, but afforded no foothold for a pedestrian. No one had ever been known to descend a slide. That feat was evi- dently reserved for the pirate band. They approached 226 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE the edge of the slide, hand in hand, hesitated, and the next moment disappeared. Five minutes later the tunnel-men of the Excelsior mine, a mile below, taking their luncheon on the rude platform of debris before their tunnel, were suddenly driven to shelter in the tunnel from an apparent rain of stones and rocks and pebbles from the cliffs above. Looking up, they were startled at seeing four round objects revolving and bounding in the dust of the slide, which eventually resolved themselves into three boys and a girl. For a moment the good men held their breath in helpless terror. Twice one of the children had struck the outer edge of the bank, and displaced stones, that shot a thousand feet down into the dizzy depths of the valley; and now one of them, the girl, had actually rolled out of the slide and was hanging over the chasm supported only by a clump of chamisal to which she clung ! "Hang on by your eyelids, sis! but don't stir, for Heaven's sake!" shouted one of the men, as two others started on a hopeless ascent of the cliff above them. But a light childish laugh from the clinging little figure seemed to mock them! Then two small heads appeared at the edge of the slide ; then a diminutive fig- ure, whose feet were apparently held by some invisible companion, was shoved over the brink and stretched its tiny arms towards the girl. But in vain, the distance was too great. Another laugh of intense youthful en- joyment followed the failure, and a new insecurity was added to the situation by the unsteady hands and shoul- ders of the relieving party, who were apparently shaking 227 MODERN STORIES with laughter. Then the extended figure was seen to detach what looked like a small black rope from its shoulders, and throw it to the girl. There was another little giggle. The faces of the men below paled in terror. Then Polly, — for it was she, — hanging to the long pigtail of Wan Lee, was drawn with fits of laughter back in safety to the slide. Their childish treble of ap- preciation was answered by a ringing cheer from below. "Darned ef I ever want to cut off a Chinaman's pig- tail again, boys," said one of the tunnel-men, as he went back to dinner. Meantime the children had reached the goal and stood before the opening of one of the tunnels. Then these four heroes who had looked with cheerful levity on the deadly peril of the descent became suddenly frightened at the mysterious darkness of the cavern and turned pale at its threshold. "Mebbee a wicked Joss backside holee, he catchee Pilats," said Wan Lee gravely. Hickory began to whimper, Patsey drew back, Polly alone stood her ground, albeit with a trembling lip. "Let's say our prayers and frighten it away," she said stoutly. "No! no!" said Wan Lee, with sudden alarm. "No frighten Spillits! You waitee! Chinee boy he talkee Spillit not to frighten you." Tucking his hands under his blue blouse, Wan Lee suddenly produced from some mysterious recess of his clothing a quantity of red paper slips, which he scattered at the entrance of the cavern. Then drawing from the same inexhaustible receptacle certain squibs or 228 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE fireworks, he let them off and threw them into the open- ing. There they went off with a slight fizz and splutter, a momentary glittering of small points in the darkness, and a strong smell of gunpowder. Polly gazed at the spectacle with undisguised awe and fascination. Hick- ory and Patsey breathed hard with satisfaction; it was beyond their wildest dreams of mystery and romance. Even Wan Lee appeared transfigured into a superior being by the potency of his own spells. But an unac- countable disturbance of some kind in the dim interior of the tunnel quickly drew the blood from their blanched cheeks again. It was a sound like coughing, followed by something like an oath. "He 's made the Evil Spirit orful sick," said Hickory, in a loud whisper. A slight laugh, that to the children seemed demonia- cal, followed. "See!" said Wan Lee. "Evil Spillet he likee Chinee; try talkee him." The Pirates looked at Wan Lee, not without a cer- tain envy of this manifest favoritism. A fearful desire to continue their awful experiments, instead of pursu- ing their piratical avocations, was taking possession of them; but Polly, with one of the swift transitions of childhood, immediately began to extemporize a house for the party at the mouth of the tunnel, and, with parental foresight, gathered the fragments of the squibs to build a fire for supper. That frugal meal, consisting of half a ginger biscuit divided into five small portions, each served on a chip of wood, and having a deliciously mysterious flavor of gunpowder and smoke, was soon 229 MODERN STORIES over. It was necessary after this that the Pirates should at once seek repose after a day of adventure, which they did for the space of forty seconds, in singularly impos- sible attitudes and far too aggressive snoring. Indeed, Master Hickory's almost upright pose, with tightly folded arms and darkly frowning brows, was felt to be dramatic, but impossible for a longer period. The brief interval enabled Polly to collect herself and to look around her in her usual motherly fashion. Suddenly she started and uttered a cry. In the excitement of the descent she had quite overlooked her doll, and was now regarding it with round-eyed horror. "Lady Mary's hair's gone!" she cried, convulsively grasping the Pirate Hickory's legs. Hickory at once recognized the battered doll under the aristocratic title which Polly had long ago bestowed upon it. He stared at the bald and battered head. "Ha! ha!" he said hoarsely; "skelped by Injins!" For an instant the delicious suggestion soothed the imaginative Polly. But it was quickly dispelled by Wan Lee. "Lady Maley's pigtail hangee top side hillee. Catchee on big quartz stone allee same Polly; me go fetchee." "No!" quickly shrieked the others. The prospect of being left in the proximity of Wan Lee's evil spirit, without Wan Lee's exorcising power, was anything but reassuring. "No, don't go!" Even Polly (dropping a maternal tear on the bald head of Lady Mary) protested against this breaking up of the little circle. " Go to bed ! " she said authoritatively, "and sleep till morning." Thus admonished, the Pirates again retired. This 230 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE time effectively; for, worn by actual fatigue or soothed by the delicious coolness of the cave, they gradually, one by one, succumbed to real slumber. Polly, with- held from joining them by official and maternal respon- sibility, sat and blinked at them affectionately. Gradually she, too, felt herself yielding to the fasci- nation and mystery of the place and the solitude that encompassed her. Beyond the pleasant shadows where she sat, she saw the great world of mountain and val- ley through a dreamy haze that seemed to rise from the depths below and occasionally hang before the cav- ern like a veil. Long waves of spicy heat rolling up the mountain from the valley brought her the smell of pine trees and bay, and made the landscape swim before her eyes. She could hear the far-off cry of teamsters on some unseen road; she could see the far-off cloud of dust following the mountain stage-coach, whose rattling wheels she could not hear. She felt very lonely, but was not quite afraid ; she felt very melancholy, but was not entirely sad; and she could have easily awakened her sleeping companions if she wished. No; she was a lone widow with nine children, six of whom were already in the lone churchyard on the hill, and the others lying ill with measles and scarlet fever beside her. She had just walked many weary miles that day, and had often begged from door to door for a slice of bread for the starving little ones. It was of no use now — they would die ! They would never see their dear mother again. This was a favorite imaginative situation of Polly's, but only indulged when her com- panions were asleep, partly because she could not trust 231 MODERN STORIES confederates with her more serious fancies, and partly because they were at such times passive in her hands. She glanced timidly around. Satisfied that no one could observe her, she softly visited the bedside of each of her companions, and administered from a purely fictitious bottle spoonfuls of invisible medicine. Physical cor- rection in the form of slight taps, which they always required, and in which Polly, was strong, was only withheld now from a sense of their weak condition. But in vain ; they succumbed to the fell disease, — they always died at this juncture, — and Polly was left alone. She thought of the little church where she had once seen a funeral, and remembered the nice smell of the flowers; she dwelt with melancholy satisfaction on the nine little tombstones in the graveyard, each with an inscription, and looked forward with gentle anticipation to the long summer days, when, with Lady Mary in her lap, she would sit on those graves clad in the deepest mourning. The fact that the unhappy victims at times moved as it were uneasily in their graves, or snored, did not affect Polly's imaginative contemplation, nor withhold the tears that gathered in her round eyes. Presently, the lids of the round eyes began to droop, the landscape beyond began to be more confused, and sometimes to disappear entirely and reappear again with startling distinctness. Then a sound of rippling water from the little stream that flowed from the mouth of the tunnel soothed her and seemed to carry her away with it, and then everything was dark. The next thing that she remembered was that she was apparently being carried along on some gliding 232 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE object to the sound of rippling water. She was not alone, for her three companions were lying beside her, rather tightly packed and squeezed in the same mysterious vehicle. Even in the profound darkness that surrounded her, Polly could feel and hear that they were accom- panied, and once or twice a faint streak of light from the side of the tunnel showed her gigantic shadows walking slowly on either side of the gliding car. She felt the little hands of her associates seeking hers, and knew they were awake and conscious, and she returned to each a reassuring pressure from the large protecting instinct of her maternal little heart. Presently the car glided into an open space of bright light, and stopped. The transition from the darkness of the tunnel at first dazzled their eyes. It was like a dream. They were in a circular cavern from which three other tunnels, like the one they had passed through, diverged. The walls, lit up by fifty or sixty candles stuck at irregular intervals in crevices of the rock, were of glittering quartz and mica. But more remarkable than all were the inmates of the cavern, who were ranged round the walls, — men who, like their attendants, seemed to be of extra stature; who had blackened faces, wore red bandana handkerchiefs round their heads and their waists, and carried enormous knives and pistols stuck in their belts. On a raised platform made of a packing-box on which was rudely painted a skull and cross-bones, sat the chief or leader of the band covered with a buffalo robe; on either side of him were two small barrels, marked "Grog" and "Gunpowder." The children stared and clung closer to Polly. Yet, in spite 233 MODERN STORIES of these desperate and warlike accessories, the strangers bore a singular resemblance to "Christy Minstrels" in their blackened faces and attitudes that somehow made them seem less awful. In particular, Polly was im- pressed with the fact that even the most ferocious had a certain kindliness of eye, and showed their teeth almost idiotically. "Welcome!" said the leader, — "welcome to the Pirates' Cave! The Red Rover of the North Fork of the Stanislaus River salutes the Queen of the Pirate Isle!" He rose up and made an extraordinary bow. It was repeated by the others with more or less exag- geration, to the point of one humorist losing his bal- ance! "Oh, thank you very much," said Polly timidly, but drawing her little flock closer to her with a small pro- tecting arm; "but could you — would you — please — tell us — what time it is ? " "We are approaching the middle of Next Week," said the leader gravely; "but what of that? Time is made for slaves! The Red Rover seeks it not! Why should the Queen ?" "I think we must be going," hesitated Polly, yet by no means displeased with the recognition of her rank. "Not until we have paid homage to Your Majesty," returned the leader. "What ho! there! Let Brother Step-and-Fetch-It pass the Queen around that we may do her honor." Observing that Polly shrank slightly back, he added: "Fear nothing; the man who hurts a hair of Her Majesty's head dies by this hand. Ah! ha!" The others all said, " Ha! ha!" and danced alternately 234 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE on one leg and then on the other, but always with the same dark resemblance to Christy Minstrels. Brother Step-and-Fetch-It, whose very long beard had a con- fusing suggestion of being a part of the leader's buffalo robe, lifted her gently in his arms and carried her to the Red Rovers in turn. Each one bestowed a kiss upon her cheek or forehead, and would have taken her in his arms, or on his knees, or otherwise lingered over his salute, but they were sternly restrained by their leader. When the solemn rite was concluded, Step-and-Fetch- It paid his own courtesy with an extra squeeze of the curly head, and deposited her again in the truck, a little frightened, a little astonished, but with a considerable accession to her dignity. Hickory and Patsey looked on with stupefied amazement. Wan Lee alone remained stolid and unimpressed, regarding the scene with calm and triangular eyes. "Will Your Majesty see the Red Rovers dance?" "No, if you please," said Polly, with gentle serious- ness. "Will Your Majesty fire this barrel of gunpowder, or tap this breaker of grog ? " "No, I thank you." "Is there no command Your Majesty would lay upon us?" "No, please," said Polly, in a failing voice. "Is there anything Your Majesty has lost? Think again ! Will Your Majesty deign to cast your royal eyes on this?" He drew from under his buffalo robe what seemed like a long tress of blond hair, and held it aloft. Polly 235 MODERN STORIES instantly recognized the missing scalp of her hapless doll. "If you please, sir, it 's Lady Mary's. She 's lost it." "And lost it — Your Majesty — only to find some- thing more precious. Would Your Majesty hear the story ? " A little alarmed, a little curious, a little self-anxious, and a little induced by the nudges and pinches of her companions, the Queen blushingly signified her royal assent. "Enough. Bring refreshments. Will Your Majesty prefer wintergreen, peppermint, rose, or acidulated drops ? Red or white ? Or perhaps Your Majesty will let me recommend these bull's-eyes," said the leader, as a collection of sweets in a hat were suddenly pro- duced from the barrel labeled "Gunpowder" and handed to the children. "Listen," he continued, in a silence broken only by the gentle sucking of bull's-eyes. "Many years ago the old Red Rovers of these parts locked up all their trea- sures in a secret cavern in this mountain. They used spells and magic to keep it from being entered or found by anybody, for there was a certain mark upon it made by a peculiar rock that stuck out of it, which signified what there was below. Long afterwards, other Red Rovers who had heard of it came here and spent days and days trying to discover it, digging holes and blast- ing tunnels like this, but of no use! Sometimes they thought they discovered the magic marks in the pecul- iar rock that stuck out of it, but when they dug there they found no treasure. And why ? Because there was 236 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE a magic spell upon it. And what was that magic spell ? Why, this ! It could only be discovered by a person who could not possibly know that he or she had discovered it; who never could or would be able to enjoy it; who could never see it, never feel it, never, in fact, know anything at all about it ! It was n't a dead man, it was n't an animal, it was n't a baby!" "Why," said Polly, jumping up and clapping her hands, "it was a Dolly." "Your Majesty's head is level! Your Majesty has guessed it!" said the leader gravely. "It was Your Majesty's own dolly, Lady Mary, who broke the spell! When Your Majesty came down the slide, the doll fell from your gracious hand when your foot slipped. Your Majesty recovered Lady Mary, but did not observe that her hair had caught in a peculiar rock, called the 'Outcrop,' and remained behind! When, later on, while sitting with your attendants at the mouth of the tun- nel, Your Majesty discovered that Lady Mary's hair was gone, I overheard Your Majesty, and dispatched the trusty Step-and-Fetch-It to seek it at the mountain side. He did so, and found it clinging to the rock, and beneath it — the entrance to the Secret Cave ! " Patsey and Hickory, who, failing to understand a word of this explanation, had given themselves up to the unconstrained enjoyment of the sweets, began now to apprehend that some change was impending, and prepared for the worst by hastily swallowing what they had in their mouths, thus defying enchantment, and getting ready for speech. Polly, who had closely fol- lowed the story, albeit with the embellishments of her 237 MODERN STORIES own imagination, made her eyes rounder than ever. A bland smile broke on Wan Lee's face, as, to the chil- dren's amazement, he quietly disengaged himself from the group and stepped before the leader. "Melican man plenty foolee Melican chillern. No foolee China boy! China boy knowee you. You no Led Lofer. You no Pilat — you allee same tunnel-man — you Bob Johnson! Me shabbee you! You dressee up allee same as Led Lofer — but you Bob Johnson — allee same. My fader washee washee for you. You no payee him. You owee him folty dolla! Me blingee you billee. You no payee billee! You say, 'Chalkee up, John.' You say, 'Bimeby, John.' But me no catchee folty dolla!" A roar of laughter followed, in which even the leader apparently forgot himself enough to join. But the next moment springing to his feet he shouted, "Ho! ho! A traitor! Away with him to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat!" Hickory and Patsey began to whimper. But Polly, albeit with a tremulous lip, stepped to the side of her little Pagan friend. "Don't you dare touch him," she said, with a shake of unexpected determination in her little curly head; "if you do, I '11 tell my father, and he will slay you ! All of you — there ! " "Your father! Then you are not the Queen!" It was a sore struggle to Polly to abdicate her royal position; it was harder to do it with befitting dignity. To evade the direct question she was obliged to aban- don her defiant attitude. "If you please, sir," she said hurriedly, with an increasing color and no stops, "we're 238 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE not always Pirates, you know, and Wan Lee is only our boy what brushes my shoes in the morning, and runs of errands, and he does n't mean anything bad, sir, and we 'd like to take him back home with us." "Enough," said the leader, changing his entire man- ner with the most sudden and shameless inconsistency. "You shall go back together, and woe betide the mis- creant who would prevent it ! What say you, brothers ? What shall be his fate who dares to separate our noble Queen from her faithful Chinese henchman ? " "He shall die!" roared the others, with beaming cheerfulness. "And what say you — shall we see them home?" "We will!" roared the others. Before the children could fairly comprehend what had passed, they were again lifted into the truck and began to glide back into the tunnel they had just quitted. But not again in darkness and silence; the entire band of Red Rovers accompanied them, illuminating the dark passage with the candles they had snatched from the walls. In a few moments they were at the entrance again. The great world lay beyond them once more, with rocks and valleys suffused by the rosy light of the setting sun. The past seemed like a dream. But were they really awake now ? They could not tell. They accepted everything with the confidence and credulity of all children who have no experience to compare with their first impressions and to whom the future contains nothing impossible. It was without surprise, therefore, that they felt themselves lifted on the shoulders of the men who were making quite a proces- 239 MODERN STORIES sion along the steep trail towards the settlement again. Polly noticed that at the mouth of the other tunnels they were greeted by men as if they were carrying tidings of great joy; that they stopped to rejoice together, and that in some mysterious manner their conductors had got their faces washed, and had become more like beings of the outer world. When they neared the settlement the excitement seemed to have become greater; people rushed out to shake hands with the men who were carry- ing them, and overpowered even the children with ques- tions they could not understand. Only one sentence Polly could clearly remember as being the burden of all congratulations. "Struck the old lead at last!" With a faint consciousness that she knew something about it, she tried to assume a dignified attitude on the leader's shoulders, even while she was beginning to be heavy with sleep. And then she remembered a crowd near her father's house, out of which her father came smiling pleasantly on her, but not interfering with her triumphal progress until the leader finally deposited her in her mother's lap in their own sitting-room. And then she remembered being "cross," and declining to answer any questions, and shortly afterwards found herself comfortably in bed. Then she heard her mother say to her father: — "It really seems too ridiculous for anything, John; the idea of those grown men dressing themselves up to play with children." "Ridiculous or not," said her father, " these grown men of the Excelsior mine have just struck the famous old lode of Red Mountain, which is as good as a for- 240 THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE tune to everybody on the Ridge, and were as wild as boys! And they say it never would have been found if Polly had n't tumbled over the slide directly on top of the outcrop, and left the absurd wig of that wretched doll of hers to mark its site." "And that," murmured Polly sleepily to her doll, as she drew it closer to her breast, "is all that they know of it." WEE WILLIE WINKIE "AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN" By Rudyard Kipling HIS full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other name in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the christened titles. His mo- ther's ayah called him Willie-Baba, but as he never paid the faintest attention to anything that the ayah said, her wisdom did not help matters. His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand what military discipline meant, Colonel Williams put him under it. There was no other way of managing the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good- conduct pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India offers many chances of going wrong to little six- year-olds. Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel's, and Wee Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens 242 WEE WILLIE WINKIE round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of his opinion. "I like you," said he slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to Brandis. "I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you mind being called Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know." Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie's peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then, without warning or explanation, would give him a name. And the name stuck. No regi- mental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christen- ing the Commissioner's wife "Pobs;" but nothing that the Colonel could do made the Station forego the nick- name, and Mrs. Collen remained "Pobs" till the end of her stay. So Brandis was christened "Coppy," and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the regiment. If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest. "The Colonel's son" was idolized on his own merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face was permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently scratched; and in spite of his mother's almost tearful remonstrances, he had insisted upon having his long yellow locks cut short, in the mili- tary fashion. "I want my hair like Sergeant TummiPs," said Wee Willie Winkie, and his father abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished. Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affec- 243 MODERN STORIES tions on Lieutenant Brandis — henceforward to be called "Coppy" for the sake of brevity — Wee Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange things, and far beyond his comprehension. Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own big sword — just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy, and Coppy had permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more — Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in time to the owner- ship of a box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, and a silver-handled "sputter-brush," as Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no one except his fa- ther who could give or take away good-conduct badges at pleasure, half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy, with the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness of kissing — vehemently kissing — a "big girl," Miss Allardyce, to wit ? In the course of a morn- ing ride, Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered back to his groom, lest the groom should also see. Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father, but he felt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to be consulted. "Coppy," shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that subaltern's bungalow early one morning. "I want to see you, Coppy!" "Come in, young 'un," returned Coppy, who was at 244 WEE WILLIE WINKIE early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. "What mis- chief have you been getting into now ? " Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad for three days, and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue. "I've been doing nothing bad," said he, curling him- self into a long chair with a studious affectation of the Colonel's languor after a hot parade. He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring roundly over the rim, asked: "I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big girls ? " "By Jove! You 're beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?" "No one. My muwer 's always kissing me if I don't stop her. If it is n't pwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce's big girl last morning, by ve canal ? " Coppy 's brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had with great craft managed to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There were urgent and impera- tive reasons why Major Allardyce should not know how matters stood for at least another month, and this small marplot had discovered a great deal too much. "I saw you," said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. "But ve sais did n't see. I said, 'Hut jaoJ'" "Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip," groaned poor Coppy, half amused and half angry. "And how many people may you have told about it ?" "Only me myself. You did n't tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame; and I fought you would n't like." "Winkie," said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the small hand, "you 're the best of good fellows. Look 245 MODERN STORIES here, you can't understand all these things. One of these days — hang it, how can I make you see it ! — I 'm going to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she'll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big girls, go and tell your father." "What will happen ?" said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that his father was omnipotent. "I shall get into trouble," said Coppy, playing his trump card with an appealing look at the holder of the ace. " Ven I won't," said Wee Willie Winkie briefly. "But my faver says it's un-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn't fink you *d do vat, Coppy." "I'm not always kissing, old chap. It's only now and then, and when you 're bigger you '11 do it too. Your father meant it's not good for little boys." "Ah!" said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlight- ened. "It's like ve sputter-brush?" "Exactly," said Coppy gravely "But I don't fink I'll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one, 'cept my muvver. And I must vat, you know." There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie. "Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?" "Awfully!" said Coppy. "Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha — or me?" "It's in a different way," said Coppy. "You see, one of these days Miss Allardyce will belong to me, but you '11 grow up and command the Regiment and — all sorts of things. It's quite different, you see." "Very well," said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. "If 246 WEE WILLIE WINKIE you 're fond of ve big girl, I won't tell any one. I must go now." Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding, — "You 're the best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you what: in thirty days from now you can tell if you like — tell any one you like." Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engage- ment was dependent on a little child's word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie's idea of truth, was at ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving round that em- barrassed young lady, was used to regard her gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy should have kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On the other hand, she was Coppy 's property, and would in time belong to him. Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much respect as Coppy 's big sword or shiny pistol. The idea that he shared a great secret in common with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually virtu- ous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke out, and he made what he called a "camp-fire" at the bot- tom of the garden. How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would have lighted the Colonel's little hay-rick and consumed a week's store for the horses ? Sudden and swift was the punishment, — deprivation of the good-conduct badge and, most sorrowful of all, two days' confinement to barracks, — the house and veranda, — coupled with the withdrawal of the light of his father's countenance. 247 MODERN STORIES He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up with a quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in his nursery — called by him "my quarters." Coppy came in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit. "I'm under awwest," said Wee Willie Winkie mourn- fully, "and I did n't ought to speak to you." Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the house — that was not forbidden — and be- held Miss Allardyce going for a ride. "Where are you going?" cried Wee Willie Winkie. "Across the river," she answered, and trotted for- ward. Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north by a river, dry in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that even Coppy — the almost almighty Coppy — had never set foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once been read to, out of a big blue book, the history of the Prin- cess and the Goblins — a most wonderful tale of a land where the Goblins were always warring with the chil- dren of men, until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills across the river were inhabited by Goblins, and, in truth, every one had said that there lived the Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves of the windows were covered with green paper on account of the Bad Men who might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, which was the 248 WEE WILLIE WINKIE end of all the earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce's big girl, Coppy's property, prepar- ing to venture into their borders ! What would Coppy say if anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off with her, as they did with Curdie's Princess ? She must at all hazards be turned back. The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a moment on the very terrible wrath of his father ; and then — broke his arrest ! It was a crime unspeak- able. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and very black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and ordered his pony. It seemed to him, in the hush of the dawn, that all the big world had been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny. The drowsy sais gave him his mount, and, since the one great sin made all others insignifi- cant, Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a footpace, stepping on the soft mould of the flower borders. The devastating track of the pony's feet was the last misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy of human- ity. He turned into the road, leaned forward, and rode as fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in the direction of the river. But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the long canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the crops, beyond the police-posts, when all the guards were asleep, and her mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie left the cantonment and British India behind him. Bowed forward and still flogging, 249 MODERN STORIES Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just see Miss Allardyce a black speck, flickering across the stony plain. The reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too-hastily- assumed authority, had told her over night that she must not ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit and teach Coppy a lesson. Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie saw the Waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but her ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not stand. Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was sur- prised by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony. "Are you badly, badly hurted ?" shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within range. "You did n't ought to be here." "I don't know," said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignor- ing the reproof. "Good gracious, child, what are you doing here ? " "You said you was going acwoss ve wiver," panted Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off his pony. "And nobody — not even Coppy — must go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you would n't stop, and now you 've hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and — I 've bwoken my awwest! I've bwoken my awwest!" The future colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle the girl was moved. "Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little man? What for?" 250 WEE WILLIE WINKIE "You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!" wailed Wee Willie Winkie disconsolately. "I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up and come back. You did n't ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and I've bwoken my awwest." "I can't move, Winkie," said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. "I've hurt my foot. What shall I do?" She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought up to be- lieve that tears were the depth of unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, even a man may be permitted to break down. "Winkie," said Miss Allardyce, "when you've rested a little, ride back and tell them to send out something to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully." The child sat still for a little time and Miss Allardyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie tying up the reins on his pony's neck and setting it free with a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. The little animal headed towards the cantonments. "Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?" "Hush!" said Wee Willie Winkie. "Vere's a man coming — one of ve Bad Men. I must stay wiv you. My faver says a man must always look after a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey'll come and look for us. Vat's why I let him go." Not one man but two or three had appeared from behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in this manner were 251 MODERN STORIES the Goblins wont to steal out and vex Curdie's soul. Thus had they played in Curdie's garden, he had seen the picture, and thus had they frightened the Princess's nurse. He heard them talking to each other, and recog- nized with joy the bastard Pushto that he had picked up from one of his father's grooms lately dismissed. People who spoke that tongue could not be the Bad Men. They were only natives, after all. They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allar- dyce's horse had blundered. Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the dominant race, aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and emphatically, "Jao/" The pony had crossed the river-bed. The men laughed, and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and why they did not depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked- stocked guns crept out of the shadows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie was face to face with an au- dience some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed. " Who are you?" said one of the men. "I am the Colonel Sahib's son, and my order is that you go at once. You black men are frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into cantonments and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and that the Colonel's son is here with her." " Put our feet into the trap ? " was the laughing reply. " Hear this boy's speech ! " " Say that I sent you — I, the Colonel's son. They will give you money." 252 WEE WILLIE WINKIE '* What is the use of this talk ? Take up the child and the girl, and we can at least ask for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the heights," said a voice in the back- ground. These were the Bad Men, — worse than Goblins, — and it needed all Wee Willie Winkie's training to pre- vent him from bursting into tears. But he felt that to cry before a native, excepting only his mother's ayah, would be an infamy greater than any mutiny. More- over, he, as future colonel of the 195th, had that grim regiment at his back. "Are you going to carry us away?" said Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable. " Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur" said the tallest of the men, " and eat you afterwards." " That is child's talk," said Wee Willie Winkie. " Men do not eat men." A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly, — " And if you do carry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day and kill you all without leaving one. Who will take my message to the Colonel Sahib?" Speech in any vernacular — and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial acquaintance with three — was easy to the boy, who could not yet manage his "r's" and "th's " aright. Another man joined the conference, crying : " O fool- ish men ! What this babe says is true. He is the heart's heart of those white troops. For the sake of peace let them go both; for if he be taken, the regiment will break loose and gut the valley. Our villages are in the valley, 253 MODERN STORIES and we shall not escape. That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda Yar's breastbone with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we touch this child they will fire and rape and plunder for a month, till nothing re- mains. Better to send a man back to take the message and get a reward. I say that this child is their god, and that they will spare none of us, nor our women, if we harm him." It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie, stand- ing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his " wegiment," his own " wegiment," would not desert him if they knew of his extremity. . . . The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though there had been consternation in the Colonel's household for an hour before. The little beast came in through the parade-ground in front of the main bar- racks, where the men were settling down to play Spoil- five till the afternoon. Devlin, the Color-Sergeant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Corporal as he passed. " Up, ye beggars ! There's some- thing happened to the Colonel's son," he shouted. " He could n't fall off ! S'elp me, 'e could n't fall off," blubbered a drummer-boy. " Go an' hunt acrost the river. He's over there if he's anywhere, an' maybe those Pathans have got 'im. For the love o' Gawd don't look for 'im in the nullahs! Let's go over the river." " There's sense in Mott yet," said Devlin. " E Com- pany, double out to the river — sharp ! " 254 WEE WILLIE WINKIE So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the perspiring Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet faster. The canton- ment was alive with the men of the 195th hunting for Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too exhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed. Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie's Bad Men were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the child and the girl, a look-out fired two shots. "What have I said?" shouted Din Mahommed. "There is the warning! The pulton are out already and are coming across the plain ! Get away ! Let us not be seen with the boy!" The men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot was fired, withdrew into the hills, silently as they had appeared. " The wegiment is coming," said Wee Willie Winkie confidently to Miss Allardyce, " and it 's all wight. Don't cwy!" He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, when his father came up, he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce's lap. And the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts and rejoicings; and Coppy, who had ridden a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense disgust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men. But there was balm for his dignity. His father as- sured him that not only would the breaking of arrest be condoned, but that the good-conduct badge would be restored as soon as his mother could sew it on his blouse 255 MODERN STORIES sleeve. Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story that made him proud of his son. "She belonged to you, Coppy," said Wee Willie Win- kie, indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy forefinger. "I knew she did n't ought to go acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent Jack home." "You're a hero, Winkie," said Coppy — "a pukka hero!" "I don't know what vat means," said Wee Willie Winkie, "but you must n't call me Winkie any no more. I'm Percival Will'am Will'ams." And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his manhood. THE ARCHERY CONTEST By Sir Walter Scott THE sound of the trumpets soon recalled those spec- tators who had already begun to leave the field; and proclamation was made that Prince John, suddenly called by high and peremptory public duties, held him- self obliged to discontinue the entertainments of to- morrow's festival; nevertheless, that, unwilling so many good yeomen should depart without a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint them, before leaving the ground, presently to execute the competition of archery intended for the morrow. To the best archer, a prize was to be awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken baldric richly ornamented with a medallion of Saint Hubert, the patron of sylvan sport. More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as competitors, several of whom were rangers and under- keepers in the royal forests of Needwood and Charn- wood. When, however, the archers understood with whom they were to be matched, upwards of twenty withdrew themselves from the contest, unwilling to en- counter the dishonor of almost certain defeat. For in those days the skill of each celebrated marksman was as well known for many miles round him as the quali- ties of a horse trained at Newmarket are familiar to those who frequent that well-known meeting. 257 MODERN STORIES The diminished list of competitors for sylvan fame still amounted to eight. Prince John stepped from his royal seat to view more nearly the persons of these chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the royal livery. Having satisfied his curiosity by this investigation, he looked for the object of his resentment, whom he ob- served standing on the same spot, and with the same composed countenance which he had exhibited upon the preceding day. "Fellow," said Prince John, "I guessed by thy in- solent babble thou wert no true lover of the long-bow, and I see thou darest not adventure thy skill among such merry-men as stand yonder." "Under favor, sir," replied the yeoman, "I have an- other reason for refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture and disgrace." " And what is thy other reason ? " said Prince John, who, for some cause which perhaps he could not him- self have explained, felt a painful curiosity respecting this individual. "Because," replied the woodsman, "I know not if these yeomen and I are used to shoot at the same marks ; and because, moreover, I know not how your Grace might relish the winning of a third prize by one who has unwittingly fallen under your displeasure." Prince John colored as he put the question, "What is thy name, yeoman ? " " Locksley," answered the yeoman. "Then, Locksley," said Prince John, "thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when these yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize, I will add to it 258 THE ARCHERY CONTEST twenty nobles ; but if thou losest it, thou shalt be stripped of thy Lincoln green, and scourged out of the lists with bow-strings, for a wordy and insolent braggart." "And how if I refuse to shoot on such a wager?" said the yeoman. "Your Grace's power, supported, as it is, by so many men-at-arms, may indeed easily strip and scourge me, but cannot compel me to bend or to draw my bow." "If thou refusest my fair proffer," said the Prince, " the Provost of the lists shall cut thy bow-string, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee from the presence as a faint-hearted craven." " This is no fair chance you put on me, proud Prince," said the yeoman, " to compel me to peril myself against the best archers of Leicester and Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me. Nevertheless, I will obey your pleasure." "Look to him close, men-at-arms," said Prince John, "his heart is sinking; I am jealous lest he attempt to escape the trial. And do you, good fellows, shoot boldly round; a buck and a butt of wine are ready for your refreshment in yonder tent, when the prize is won." A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led to the lists. The contending archers took their station in turn, at the bottom of the southern access; the distance between that station and the mark allowing full distance for what was called a shot at rovers. The archers, having previously determined by lot their order of precedence, were to shoot each three shafts in succession. The sports were regulated by an officer of inferior rank, termed the Provost of the Games,* 259 MODERN STORIES for the high rank of the marshals of the lists would have been held degraded had they condescended to superin- tend the sports of the yeomanry. One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows, shot in succession, ten were fixed in the target, and the others ranged so near it that, considering the dis- tance of the mark, it was accounted good archery. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester in the service of Malvoisin, who was accordingly pronounced victorious. "Now, Locksley," said Prince John to the bold yeo- man, with a bitter smile, "wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow, baldric, and quiver, to the Provost of the sports ? " "Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune; on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose." "That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee." "A man can but do his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a good long-bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonor his memory." The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the first trial of skill, had the right to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation, long measur- ing the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. 260 THE ARCHERY CONTEST At length he made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, till the centre or grasp- ing-place was nigh level with his face, he drew his bow- string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre. "You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist, bending his bow, "or that had been a better shot." So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim, Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speak- ing almost at the instant that the shaft left the bow- string, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert. "By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hu- bert; "an thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows !" Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. "An your highness were to hang me," he said, "a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow " — "The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his genera- tion!" interrupted John; "shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be worse for thee!" Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and shot so 261 MODERN STORIES successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target. "A Hubert! a Hubert!" shouted the populace, more interested in a known person than in a stranger. "In the clout! in the clout! a Hubert forever!" "Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the Prince, with an insulting smile. "I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley. And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. The people who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful dexterity that they could not even give vent to their surprise in their usual clamor. "This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood," whispered the yeomen to each other; "such archery was never seen since a bow was first bent in Britain." "And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your Grace's permission to plant such a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best." He then turned to leave the lists. "Let your guards attend me," he said, "if you please. I go but to cut a rod from the next willow-bush." Prince John made a signal that some attendants should follow him in case of his escape; but the cry of "Shame! shame!" which burst from the multitude, induced him to alter his ungenerous purpose. Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow 262 THE ARCHERY CONTEST wand about six feet in length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He began to peel this with great composure, observing, at the same time, that to ask a good woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used was to put shame upon his skill. For his own part, he said, and in the land where he was bred, men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, which held sixty knights around it. "A child of seven years old," he said, "might hit yonder target with a headless shaft; but," added he, walking deliberately to the other end of the lists, and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground, "he that hits that rod at fivescore yards, I call him an archer fit to bear both bow and quiver before a king, an it were the stout King Richard himself." "My grandsire," said Hubert, "drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings, and never shot at such a mark in his life, and neither will I. If this yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers; or rather, I yield to the devil that is in his jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man can but do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I might as well shoot at the edge of our parson's whittle, or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly see." "Cowardly dog !" said Prince John. "Sirrah Locks- ley, do thou shoot ; but if thou hittest such a mark I will say thou art the first man ever did so. Howe'er it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of superior skill." "I will do my best, as Hubert says," answered Locks- ley; "no man can do more." 263 MODERN STORIES So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the pre- sent occasion looked with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two for- mer shots. He then took his aim with some delibera* tion, and the multitude awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their opinion of his skill : his arrow split the willow rod against which it was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an in- stant his dislike to his person. "These twenty nobles," he said, "which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly won, are thine own ; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body- guard, and be near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft." "Pardon me, noble Prince," said Locksley; "but I have vowed that if ever I take service it should be with your royal brother, King Richard. These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he would have hit the wand as well as I." Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape farther observation, mixed with the crowd, and was seen no more. A RACE FOR LIFE By James Fenimore Cooper ALOW but fearful sound arose from the forest, and was immediately succeeded by a high, shrill yell, that was drawn out, until it equaled the longest and most plaintive howl of the wolf. The sudden and terrible interruption caused Duncan to start from his seat, unconscious of everything but the effect produced by so frightful a cry. At the same moment, the warriors glided in a body from the lodge, and the outer air was filled with loud shouts, that nearly drowned those aw- ful sounds, which were still ringing beneath the arches of the woods. Unable to command himself any longer, the youth broke from the place, and presently stood in the centre of a disorderly throng, that included nearly everything having life, within the limits of the encamp- ment. Men, women, and children; the aged, the infirm, the active, and the strong, were alike abroad; some exclaiming aloud, others clapping their hands with a joy that seemed frantic, and all expressing their savage pleasure in some unexpected event. Though astounded, at first, by the uproar, Heyward was soon enabled to find its solution by the scene that followed. There yet lingered sufficient light in the heavens to exhibit those bright openings among the treetops, where different paths left the clearing to enter the depths of 265 MODERN STORIES the wilderness. Beneath one of them, a line of warriors issued from the woods, and advanced slowly towards the dwellings. One in front bore a short pole, on which, as it afterwards appeared, were suspended several hu- man scalps. The startling sounds that Duncan had heard were what the whites have not inappropriately called the "death-halloo;" and each repetition of the cry was intended to announce to the tribe the fate of an enemy. Thus far the knowledge of Heyward assisted him in the explanation; and as he now knew that the interruption was caused by the unlooked-for return of a successful war-party, every disagreeable sensation was quieted in inward congratulation, for the oppor- tune relief and insignificance it conferred on himself. When at the distance of a few hundred feet from the lodges, the newly arrived warriors halted. Their plain- tive and terrific cry, which was intended to represent equally the wailings of the dead and the triumph of the victors, had entirely ceased. One of their number now called aloud, in words that were far from appalling, though not more intelligible to those for whose ears they were intended, than their expressive yells. It would be difficult to convey a suitable idea of the savage ecstasy with which the news thus imparted was received. The whole encampment, in a moment, became a scene of the most violent bustle and commotion. The warriors drew their knives, and flourishing them, they arranged themselves in two lines, forming a lane that extended from the war-party to the lodges. The squaws seized clubs, axes, or whatever weapon of offense first offered itself to their hands, and rushed eagerly to act their 266 A RACE FOR LIFE part in the cruel game that was at hand . Even the chil- dren would not be excluded ; but boys, little able to wield the instruments, tore the tomahawks from the belts of their fathers, and stole into the ranks, apt imitators of the savage traits exhibited by their parents. Large piles of brush lay scattered about the clearing, and a wary and aged squaw was occupied in firing as many as might serve to light the coming exhibition. As the flame arose, its power exceeded that of the parting day, and assisted to render objects at the same time more distinct and more hideous. The whole scene formed a striking picture, whose frame was composed of the dark and tall border of pines. The warriors just arrived were the most distant figures. A little in advance stood two men, who were apparently selected from the rest, as the principal actors in what was to follow. The light was not strong enough to render their features distinct, though it was quite evident that they were governed by very different emotions. While one stood erect and firm, prepared to meet his fate like a hero, the other bowed his head, as if palsied by terror or stricken with shame. The high-spirited Duncan felt a powerful impulse of admiration and pity towards the former, though no opportunity could offer to exhibit his gen- erous emotions. He watched his slightest movement, however, with eager eyes ; and as he traced the fine out- line of his admirably proportioned and active frame, he endeavored to persuade himself that if the powers of man, seconded by such noble resolution, could bear one harmless through so severe a trial, the youthful captive before him might hope for success in the hazard- 267 MODERN STORIES ous race he was about to run. Insensibly the young man drew nigher to the swarthy lines of the Hurons, and scarcely breathed, so intense became his interest in the spectacle. Just then the signal yell was given, and the momentary quiet which had preceded it was broken by a burst of cries that far exceeded any before heard. The most abject of the two victims continued motionless ; but the other bounded from the place at the cry, with the activity and swiftness of a deer. Instead of rushing through the hostile lines, as had been ex- pected, he just entered the dangerous defile, and before time was given for a single blow, turned short, and leap- ing the heads of a row of children, he gained at once the exterior and safer side of the formidable array. The artifice was answered by a hundred voices raised in imprecations ; and the whole of the excited multitude broke from their order, and spread themselves about the place in wild confusion. A dozen blazing piles now shed their lurid bright- ness on the place, which resembled some unhallowed and supernatural arena, in which malicious demons had assembled to act their bloody and lawless rites. The forms in the background looked like unearthly beings gliding before the eye, and cleaving the air with fran- tic and unmeaning gestures ; while the savage passions of such as passed the flames were rendered fearfully distinct by the gleams that shot athwart their inflamed visages. It will easily be understood, that amid such a con- course of vindictive enemies, no breathing time was allowed the fugitive. There was a single moment when 268 A RACE FOR LIFE it seemed as if he would have reached the forest, but the whole body of his captors threw themselves before him, and drove him back into the centre of his relentless persecutors. Turning like a headed deer, he shot, with the swiftness of an arrow, through a pillar of forked flame, and passing the whole multitude harmless, he ap- peared on the opposite side of the clearing. Here, too, he was met and turned by a few of the older and more subtle of the Hurons. Once more he tried the throng, as if seeking safety in its blindness, and then several moments succeeded, during which Duncan believed the active and courageous young stranger was lost. Nothing could be distinguished but a dark mass of human forms tossed and involved in inextricable con- fusion. Arms, gleaming knives, and formidable clubs appeared above them, but the blows were evidently given at random. The awful effect was heightened by the piercing shrieks of the women and the fierce yells of the warriors. Now and then Duncan caught a glimpse of a light form cleaving the air in some desperate bound, and he rather hoped than believed that the captive yet retained the command of his astonishing powers of activity. Suddenly the multitude rolled backward, and approached the spot where he himself stood. The heavy body in the rear pressed upon the women and children in front, and bore them to the earth. The stranger reappeared in the confusion. Human power could not, however, much longer endure so severe a trial. Of this the captive seemed conscious. Profiting by the momen- tary opening, he darted from among the warriors, and made a desperate, and what seemed to Duncan a final 269 MODERN STORIES effort to gain the wood. As if aware that no danger was to be apprehended from the young soldier, the fugitive nearly brushed his person in his flight. A tall and power- ful Huron, who had husbanded his forces, pressed close upon his heels, and with an uplifted arm menaced a fatal blow. Duncan thrust forth a foot, and the shock precipitated the eager savage headlong, many feet in advance of his intended victim. Thought itself is not quicker than was the motion with which the latter profited by the advantage; he turned, gleamed like a meteor again before the eyes of Duncan, and at the next moment, when the latter recovered his recollec- tion, and gazed around in quest of the captive, he saw him quietly leaning against a small painted post, which stood before the door of the principal lodge. Apprehensive that the part he had taken in the escape might prove fatal to himself, Duncan left the place without delay. He followed the crowd, which drew nigh the lodges, gloomy and sullen, like any other multi- tude that had been disappointed in an execution. Curi- osity, or perhaps a better feeling, induced him to ap- proach the stranger. He found him standing with one arm cast about the protecting post, and breathing thick and hard, after his exertions, but disdaining to permit a single sign of suffering to escape. His person was now protected by immemorial and sacred usage, until the tribe in council had deliberated and determined on his fate. It was not difficult, however, to foretell the result, if any presage could be drawn from the feelings of those who crowded the place. THE GREAT STONE FACE By Nathaniel Hawthorne ONE afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features. And what was the Great Stone Face ? Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people dwelt in log huts, with the black forest all around them, on the steep and difficult hillsides. Others had their homes in comfortable farmhouses, and cultivated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild, highland rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper mountain region, had been caught and tamed by human cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton factories. The inhab- itants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of life. But all of them, grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity with the Great Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishing 271 MODERN STORIES this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of their neighbors. The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the per- pendicular side of a mountain by some immense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height ; the nose, ,with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder ac- cents from one end of the valley to the other. True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lost the outline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther he withdrew from them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive. It was a happy lot for children to grow up to man- hood or womanhood with the Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the ex- pression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all man- kind in its affections, and had room for more. It was an education only to look at it. According to the belief 272 83*® *.+* rzaiTuz ■ ^^r ' ->, - — i — / ■ s ■-••-;. . ; -. y jfc- ■ 1 1 ■ fri THE GREAT STONE FACE, THEN, WAS A WORK OF NATURE IN HER MOOD OF MAJESTIC PLAYFULNESS, FORMED ON THE PERPENDICU- LAR SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN BY SOME IMMENSE ROCKS, WHICH HAD BEEN THROWN TOGETHER IN SUCH A POSITION AS, WHEN VIEWED AT A PROPER DISTANCE, PRECISELY TO RESEMBLE THE FEATURES OF THE HUMAN COUNTENANCE. IT SEEMED AS IF AN ENORMOUS GIANT, OR A TITAN, HAD SCULPTURED HIS OWN *L M 2M 4* LIKENESS JA i&Es&l 32B THE GREAT STONE FACE of many people, the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect that was continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing its tenderness into the sunshine. As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their cottage door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The child's name was Ernest. "Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, " I wish that it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him dearly." "If an old prophecy should come to pass," answered his mother, "we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that." "What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?" eagerly inquired Ernest. "Pray tell me all about it!" So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the moun- tain streams, and whispered by the wind among the treetops. The purport was, that, at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face. Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring 273 MODERN STORIES faith in this old prophecy. But others, who had seen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, and had beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much greater or nobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At all events, the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared. "O mother, dear mother!" cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head, "I do hope that I shall live to see him!" His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful wo- man, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So she only said to him, "Perhaps you may." And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his childhood in the log cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement, re- sponsive to his own look of veneration. We must not 274 THE GREAT STONE FACE take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no more kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. But the secret was that the boy's tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion. About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the great man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years before, a young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. His name — but I could never learn whether it was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life — was Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed by Providence with that inscruta- ble faculty which develops itself in what the world calls luck, he became an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose of adding heap after heap to the moun- tainous accumulation of this one man's wealth. The cold regions of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of the forests; the East came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming pu- rity of large pearls. The ocean, not to be behindhand 275 MODERN STORIES with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit on it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was gold within his grasp. It might be said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he touched with his fin- ger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was changed at once into sterling metal, or, which suited him still better, into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent a skillful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in. As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr. Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable similitude of the Great Stone Face. People were the more ready to believe that this must needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father's old weather- beaten farmhouse. The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young play- days, before his fingers were gifted with the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to build of snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, studded with 276 THE GREAT STONE FACE silver knobs, and made of a kind of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. The win- dows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately apart- ment, were composed, respectively, of but one enor- mous pane of glass, so transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even the vacant atmos- phere. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this palace; but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gathergold's bedchamber, especially, made such a glit- tering appearance that no ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he could not have closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his eyelids. In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with magnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gather- gold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest 277 MODERN STORIES doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he was to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road. " Here he comes ! " cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the arrival. "Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!" A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together. " The very image of the Great Stone Face ! " shouted the people. "Sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come at last!" And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to be an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A yel- low claw — the very same that had clawed together so much wealth — poked itself out of the coach-window, and dropped some copper coins upon the ground; so 278 THE GREAT STONE FACE that, though the great man's name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have been nick- named Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the people bellowed, — "He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!" But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewd- ness of that sordid visage, and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sun- beams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem to say? "He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come ! " The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a young man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley; for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, save that, when the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and that the sentiment which was ex- pressed in it would enlarge the young man's heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. They knew not that thence would come a bet- ter wisdom than could be learned from books, and a 279 MODERN STORIES better life than could be moulded on the defaced ex- ample of other human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affections which came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, and wherever he communed with himself, were of a higher tone than those which all men shared with him. A simple soul, — simple as when his mother first taught him the old prophecy, — he beheld the marvelous features beaming adown the valley, and still wondered that their human counterpart was so long in making his appearance. By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part of the matter was, that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his exist- ence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the melting away of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that there was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountain-side. So the people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned him to forgetfulness after his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up in con- nection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had long ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curi- osity, the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited and thrown into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to come. It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, THE GREAT STONE FACE many years before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he was known in camps and on the battlefield under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being now infirm with age and wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet, that had so long been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning to his native val- ley, hoping to find repose where he remembered to have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the re- nowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a pub- lic dinner; and all the more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An aide-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley, was said to have been struck with the resem- blance. Moreover the schoolmates and early acquaint- ances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the majestic image, even when a boy, only that the idea had never occurred to them at that period. Great, therefore, was the excite- ment throughout the valley; and many people, who had never once thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face for years before, now spent their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing, exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked. On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the 281 MODERN STORIES other people of the valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battle- blast was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened east- ward, and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the general's chair, which was a relic from the home of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurel profusely intermixed, and sur- mounted by his country's banner, beneath which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from the general in reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, being of an unob- trusive character, was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no more of Old Blood-and-Thun- der's physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on the battlefield. To console himself, he turned towards the Great Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long- remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him through the vista of the forest. Meantime, however, he could overhear the remarks of various individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero with the face on the distant mountain-side. 282 THE GREAT STONE FACE " 'T is the same face, to a hair ! " cried one man, cut- ting a caper for joy. " Wonderfully like, that 's a fact ! " responded an- other. "Like! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder him- self, in a monstrous looking-glass!" cried a third. "And why not ? He 's the greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt." And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicated electricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thousand voices, that went rever- berating for miles among the mountains, until you might have supposed that the Great Stone Face had poured its thunder-breath into the cry. All these com- ments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the more to interest our friend; nor did he think of questioning that now, at length, the mountain visage had found its human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had imagined that this long-looked-for personage would appear in the character of a man of peace, uttering wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. But, taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he con- tended that Providence should choose its own method of blessing mankind, and could conceive that this great end might be effected even by a warrior and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wisdom see fit to order mat- ters so. "The general! the general!" was now the cry. "Hush! silence! Old Blood-and-Thunder 's going to make a speech." Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general's 283 MODERN STORIES health had been drunk, amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the company. Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and embroi- dered collar upward, beneath the arch of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if to shade his brow ! And there, too, visible in the same glance, through the vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone Face! And was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified ? Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He beheld a war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of energy, and expres- sive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder's visage; and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed his look of stern command, the milder traits would still have tempered it. "This is not the man of prophecy," sighed Ernest to himself, as he made his way out of the throng. "And must the world wait longer yet?" The mists had congregated about the distant moun- tain-side, and there were seen the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening, although without motion of the lips. It was probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting through the thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object that he gazed at THE GREAT STONE FACE But — as it always did — the aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain. "Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the Great Face were whispering him, — "fear not, Ernest; he will come." More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he had become known among the people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thought and felt so much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for some great good to man- kind, that it seemed as though he had been talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. It was visible in the calm and well- considered beneficence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all along its course. Not a day passed by, that the world was not the better because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth in speech. He uttered truths that wrought upon and moulded the lives of those who heard him. His audi- tors, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary 285 MODERN STORIES man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as the murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken. When the people's minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready enough to acknowledge their mis- take in imagining a similarity between General Blood- and-Thunder's truculent physiognomy and the benign visage on the mountain-side. But now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood- and-Thunder, was a native of the valley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and politics. Instead of the rich man's wealth and the war- rior's sword, he had but a tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was he, that whatever he might choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked like right, and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he could make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath, and obscure the natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the sweet- est music. It was the blast of war, — the song of peace; and it seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no such matter. In good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all other im- aginable success, — when it had been heard in halls of state, and in the courts of princes and potentates, — after it had made him known all over the world, even 286 THE GREAT STONE FACE as a voice crying from shore to shore, — it finally per- suaded his countrymen to select him for the Presidency. Before this time, — indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated, — his admirers had found out the resem- blance between him and the Great Stone Face; and so much were they struck by it, that throughout the country this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase was considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his political pros- pects; for, as is likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody ever becomes President without taking a name other than his own. While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony Phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of course, he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow citizens, and neither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through the country might have upon the election. Magnificent preparations were made to receive the illustrious statesman ; a cavalcade of horse- men set forth to meet him at the boundary line of the State, and all the people left their business and gathered along the wayside to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and confiding nature, that he was always ready to believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart continually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high when it should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the Great Stone Face. 287 MODERN STORIES The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that the visage of the mountain-side was completely hidden from Ernest's eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood were there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; the member of Congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous banners flaunting over the caval- cade, on some of which were gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the pictures were to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvelous. We must not for- get to mention that there was a band of music, which made the echoes of the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud triumph of its strains ; so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice, to welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the far-off mountain preci- pice flung back the music; for then the Great Stone Face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant cho- rus, in acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy was come. All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting, with enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, "Huzza 288 THE GREAT STONE FACE for the great man ! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz ! " But as yet he had not seen him. "Here he is, now!" cried those who stood near Ernest. " There ! There ! Look at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if they are not as like as two twin-brothers!" In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself. " Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to him, "the Great Stone Face has met its match at last!" Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which was bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a resem- blance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain-side. The brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sublimity and state- liness, the grand expression of a divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage and etherealized its ponderous granite substance into spirit, might here be sought in vain. Something had been originally left out, or had departed. And therefore the marvelously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its playthings or a man of mighty faculties and little aims, whose life, with all its high performances, was vague and empty, because no high purpose had endowed it with reality. 289 MODERN STORIES Still, Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and pressing him for an answer. "Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the Mountain ? " "No!" said Ernest bluntly, "I see little or no like- ness." " Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face ! " answered his neighbor; and again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz. But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent; for this was the saddest of his disappoint- ments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face to be revealed again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries. "Lo, here I am, Ernest!" the benign lips seemed to say. "I have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come." The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's heels. And now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of Ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old: more than the white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that Time had graved, and in which he had written legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. And Ernest 290 THE GREAT STONE FACE had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame which so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond the limits of the val- ley in which he had dwelt so quietly. College profes- sors, and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and converse with Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher tone, — a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends. Whether it were sage, statesman, or philan- thropist, Ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity that had characterized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of whatever came upper- most, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While they talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them, as with a mild evening light. Pensive with the fullness of such discourse, his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, im- agining that they had seen its likeness in a human coun- tenance, but could not remember where. While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in hi? childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmos phere of his poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face 291 MODERN STORIES forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. This man of genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with wonderful endowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind be- held a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soar- ing to its summit, than had before been seen there. If his theme were a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam forever on its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had be- stowed him, as the last best touch to his own handiwork. Creation was not finished till the poet came to inter- pret, and so complete it. The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human brethren were the subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in it, were glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links of the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden traits of a celestial birth that made them worthy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the soundness of their judgment by affirming that all the beauty and dignity of the natural world existed only in the poet's fancy. Let such men speak for themselves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature with a 292 THE GREAT STONE FACE contemptuous bitterness ; she having plastered them up out of her refuse stuff, after all the swine were made. As respects all things else, the poet's ideal was the truest truth. The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage door, where for such a length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the Great Stone Face. And now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so be- nignantly. "O majestic friend," he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face, " is not this man worthy to resemble thee?" The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word. Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heard of Ernest, but had medi- tated much upon his character, until he deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wis- dom walked hand in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the after- noon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from Ernest's cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand ; but the poet, with his carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be accepted as his guest. Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in his hand, which alternately 293 MODERN STORIES he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves fJ looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face. "Good-evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveler a night's lodging ? " "Willingly," answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, "Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger." The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked together. Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest, but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feel- ings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and, dwelling with angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. So thought the poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated by the living images which the poet flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottage door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. The sympathies of these two men instructed them with a prof ounder sense than either could have attained alone. Their minds accorded into one strain, and made delightful music which neither of them could have claimed as all his own, nor dis- tinguished his own share from the other's. They led one another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so remote, and hitherto so dim, that the^ 294 THE GREAT STONE FACE had never entered it before, and so beautiful that they desired to be there always. As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was bending forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet's glowing eyes. "Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?" he said. The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading. " You have read these poems," said he. " You know me, then, — for I wrote them." Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet's features; then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an uncertain as- pect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head, and sighed. " Wherefore are you sad ? " inquired the poet. "Because," replied Ernest, "all through life I have awaited the fulfillment of a prophecy; and, when I read these poems, I hoped that it might be fulfilled in you." "You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly with Mr. Gather- gold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three, and record another fail- ure of your hopes. For — in shame and sadness do I speak it, Ernest — I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic image." "And why?" asked Ernest. He pointed to the vol- ume. " Are not those thoughts divine ? " 295 MODERN STORIES "They have a. strain of the Divinity," replied the poet. "You can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, has not cor- responded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they have been only dreams, because I have lived — and that, too, by my own choice — among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even — shall I dare to say it ? — I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness which my own works are said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me in yonder image of the divine ? " The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were those of Ernest. At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to discourse to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. He and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceeded to the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creeping plants that made a tapestry for the naked rock, by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At a small elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure, with free- dom for such gestures as spontaneously accompany earnest thought and genuine emotion. Into this natu- ral pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look of famil- iar kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good to 296 THE GREAT STONE FACE each, with the departing sunshine falling obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the solemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which the golden rays were constrained to pass. In another direction was seen the Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its benignant aspect. Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and mind. His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmo- nized with the life which he had always lived. It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they were the words of life, because a life of good deeds and holy love was melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich, had been dissolved into this precious draught. The poet, as he listened, felt that the being and character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a distance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the white hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed to embrace the world. At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with benevolence, 297 MODERN STORIES that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms aloft, and shouted, — "Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone Face!" Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he had to say, took the poet's arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping that some wiser and better man than him- self would by and by appear, bearing a resemblance to the Great Stone Face. FARMER FINCH By Sarah Orne Jewett IT was as bleak and sad a day as one could well im- agine. The time of year was early in December, and the daylight was already fading, though it was only a little past the middle of the afternoon. John Finch was driving toward his farm, which he had left early in the morning to go to town; but to judge from his face one might have been sure that his business had not been successful. He looked pinched and discouraged with something besides the cold, and he hardly noticed the faithful red horse which carefully made its way over the frozen ruts of the familiar road. There had lately been a few days of mild weather, when the ground had had time to thaw; but with a sudden blast of cold this deep mud had become like iron, rough and ragged, and jarring the people and horses cruelly who tried to travel over it. The road lay through the bleak country side of the salt-marshes which stretched themselves away toward the sea, dotted here and there with haycocks, and crossed in wavering lines by the inlets and ditches, filled now with grayish ice, that was sinking and cracking as the tide ran out. The marsh-grass was wind-swept and beaten until it looked as soft and brown as fur; the wind had free course over it, and it looked like a deserted bit of the world; the 299 MODERN STORIES battered and dingy flat-bottomed boats were fastened securely in their tiny harbors, or pulled far ashore as if their usefulness was over, not only for that season but for all time. In some late autumn weather one feels as if summer were over with forever, and as if no resur- rection could follow such unmistakable and hopeless death. Where the land was higher it looked rocky and rough, and behind the marshes there were some low hills looking as if they were solid stone to their cores, and sparingly overgrown with black and rigid cedars. These stood erect from the least to the greatest, a most unbend- ing and heartless family, which meant to give neither shade in summer nor shelter in winter. No wind could overturn them, for their roots went down like wires into the ledges, and no drought could dry away the in- most channels of vigorous though scanty sap that ran soberly through their tough, unfruitful branches. In one place the hills formed an amphitheatre open on the side toward the sea, and here on this bleak day it seemed as if some dismal ceremony were going for- ward. As one caught sight of the solemn audience of black and gloomy cedars that seemed to have come together to stand on the curving hillsides, one instinc- tively looked down at the level arena of marsh-land below, half fearing to see some awful sacrificial rite or silent combat. It might be an angry Company of ham- adryads, who had taken the shape of cedar trees on this day of revenge and terror. It was difficult to believe that one would ever see them again, and that the sum- mer and winter days alike would find them looking 300 FARMER FINCH down at the grave business which was invisible to the rest of the world. The little trees stood beside their elders in families, solemn and stern, and some miser- able men may have heard the secret as they stumbled through the snow praying for shelter, lost and frozen on a winter night. If you lie down along the rough grass in the slender shadow of a cedar and look off to sea, in a summer afternoon, you only hear a whisper like " Hush ! hush ! " as the wind comes through the stiff branches. The boughs reach straight upward; you cannot lie under- neath and look through them at the sky; the tree all reaches away from the ground as if it had a horror of it, and shrank from even the breeze and the sunshine. On this December day, as the blasts of wind struck them, they gave one stiff, unwilling bend, and then stood erect again. The road wound along between the sea- meadows and the hills, and poor John Finch seemed to be the only traveler. He was lost in thought, and the horse still went plodding on. The worn buffalo-robe was dragging from one side of the wagon, and had slipped down off the driver's knees. He hardly knew that he held the reins. He was in no hurry to get home, cold as it was, for he had only bad news to tell. Polly Finch, his only daughter, was coming toward home from the opposite direction, and with her also things had gone wrong. She was a bright, good-natured girl of about twenty, but she looked old and care-worn that day. She was dressed in her best clothes, as if she had been away on some important affair, perhaps to a funeral, and she was shivering and wholly chilled 301 MODERN STORIES in spite of the shawl which her mother had insisted upon her carrying. It had been a not uncomfortable morning for that time of year, and she had flouted the extra wrap at first, but now she hugged it close, and half buried her face in its folds. The sky was gray and heavy, except in the west, where it was a clear, cold shade of yellow. All the leafless bushes and fluffy brown tops of the dead asters and goldenrods stood out in exquisitely delicate silhouettes against the sky on the high roadsides, while some tattered bits of blackberry vine held still a dull glow of color. As Polly passed a barberry bush that grew above her she was forced to stop, for, gray and winterish as it had been on her approach, when she looked at it from the other side it seemed to be glowing with rubies. The sun was shin- ing out pleasantly now that it had sunk below the clouds, and in these late golden rays the barberry bush had taken on a great splendor. It gave Polly a start, and it cheered her not a little, this sudden transforma- tion, and she even went back along the road a little way to see it again as she had at first in its look of misery. The berries that still clung to its thorny branches looked dry and spoiled, but a few steps forward again made them shine out, and take on a beauty that neither sum- mer nor autumn had given them, and Polly gave her head a little shake. "There are two ways of looking at more things than barberry bushes," she said aloud, and went off with brisker steps down the road. At home in the farmhouse Mrs. Finch had been wait- ing for her husband and daughter to come, until she had grown tired and hungry and almost frightened. 302 FARMER FINCH Perhaps the day had been longer and harder to her than to any one else. She had thought of so many cautions and suggestions that she might have given them both; and though the father's errand was a much more important one, still she had built much hope on the possibility of Polly's encounter with the school committee proving successful. Things had been growing very dark in Mr. Finch's business affairs, and they had all looked with great eagerness toward her securing a sit- uation as teacher of one of the town schools. It was at no great distance, so that Polly could easily board at home, and many things seemed to depend upon it, even if the bank business turned out better than was feared. Our heroine had in her childhood been much praised for her good scholarship, and stood at the head of the district school, and it had been urged upon her father and mother by her teachers, and by other friends more or less wise, that she should have what they called an education. It had been a hard thing both for her father to find the money, and for her mother to get on without her help in the housework, but they had both managed to get along, and Polly had acquitted herself nobly in the ranks of a neighboring academy, and for the last year had been a pupil in the normal school. She had been very happy in her school life, and very popular both with scholars and teachers. She was friendly and social by nature, and it had been very pleasant to her to be among so many young people. The routine and petty ceremony of her years of study did not fret her, for she was too strong and good-natured even to be worn upon or much tired with the unwhole- 303 MODERN STORIES some life she lived. It was easy enough for her to get her lessons, and so she went through with flying colors, and cried a little when the last day arrived; but she felt less regret than most of the girls who were turned out then upon the world, some of them claiming truth- fully that they had finished their education, since they had not wit enough to learn anything more, either with schoolbooks in their hands or without them. It came to Polly's mind as she stood in a row with the rest of the girls, while the old minister who was chief of the trustees gave them their diplomas, and some very good advice besides: "I wonder why we all made up our minds to be teachers ? I wonder if we are going to be good ones, and if I should n't have liked some- thing else a great deal better ? " Certainly she had met with a disappointment at the beginning of her own career, for she had seen that it was necessary for her to be within reach of home, and it seemed as if every school of the better class had been provided with a teacher. She had been so confident of her powers and mindful of her high standing at the normal school that it seemed at first that a fine position ought to be hers for the asking. But one after another her plans had fallen to the ground, until this last one, which had just been decided against her also. It had never occurred to her at first as a possible thing that she should apply for the small town school in her own district ; to tell the truth, it was a great downfall of pride to the family, but they had said to each other that it would be well for Polly to have the winter at home, and in spring she could suit herself exactly. But everybody 304 FARMER FINCH had felt the impossibility of her remaining idle, and no wonder her heart sank as she went toward home, know- ing that she must tell them that another had been chosen to fill the place. Mrs. Finch looked at the fire, and looked out of the window down the road, and took up the stocking she was knitting and tried to work at it ; but every half-hour that went by doubled her uneasiness, and she looked out of the window altogether at last, until the fire was almost burned out, and the knitting lay untouched in her lap. She was a tall, fine-looking woman, with a worn, well-featured face, and thinnish hair that had once been light brown, but was much faded and not a little gray in these later years. It had been thought a pity that she married John Finch, who had not half so much force as she; and with all her wisdom and affection and economy, every year had seemed to take away something from them, leaving few gifts and gains in exchange. At first her pride and ambition, which were reasonable enough, always clung to her husband's plans and purposes; but as she saw year after year that he stayed exactly in the same place, mak- ing little headway either in farming or anything else, she began to live more and more in her daughter's life, and looked eagerly to see her win her way and gain an honorable place, first in her school life, and after- ward as a teacher. She had never dreamed beforehand of the difficulties that had assailed Polly since she came home the head of her class in June. She had supposed that it would be an easy thing for her now to find a good situation in a high or private school, with a capital sal- 305 MODERN STORIES ary. She hated to think there was nothing for her but to hold sway over the few scholars in the little unpainted schoolhouse half a mile down the road, even though the girl, who was the very delight of her heart, should be with her so much more than they had expected at first. She was a kind, simple-hearted, good woman, this elder Mary Finch, and she had borne her failing for- tunes with perfect bravery; she had been the sunshine and inspiration of the somewhat melancholy house for many years. At last she saw her husband coming along the road, and even that far-away first glimpse of him told her that she would hear no good news. He pulled up the fallen buffalo-robe over his lap, and sat erect, and tried to look unconcerned as he drove into the yard, but it was some time before he came into the house. He un- harnessed the horse with stiff and shaking hands, and gave him his supper, and turned the old wagon and backed it into its place before he came in. Polly had come home also by that time, and was sitting by the window, and did not turn to speak to him. His wife looked old, and her face was grayish, and the lines of it were hard and drawn in strange angles. • "You had better sit right down by the fire, John," she told him, " and I '11 get you and Polly a good hot supper right away. I think, like 's not, you did n't get a mouthful of dinner." " I 've no need to tell you I 've got bad news," he said. "The bank's failed, and they won't pay more 'n ten cents on a dollar, if they make out to do that. It 's worse than we ever thought it could be. The cashier 306 FARMER FINCH got speculating, and he 's made 'way with about every- thing." It seemed to him as if he had known this for years, it was such an old, sad story already, and he almost wondered at the surprise and anger that his wife and Polly showed at once. It made him a little impatient that they would ask him so many eager questions. This was the worst piece of misfortune that had ever come to him. Although they had heard the day before that the bank would pass its dividend, and had been much concerned and troubled, and had listened incredulously to worse stories of the condition of the bank's finances, they had looked for nothing like this. There was little to be said, but everything to be thought and feared. They had put entire confidence in this bank's security, and the money which had be- longed to John Finch's father had always been left there to draw a good yearly interest. The farm was not very productive, and they had depended upon this dividend for a large part of their ready money. Much of their other property had dwindled away. If ever there had been a prospect of making much off the farm, some- thing had interfered. One year a piece of woodland had been cleared at considerable expense, and on the day before its unlucky owner was to begin to haul the great stacks of fire-wood down to the little wharf in the marshes, from whence they could be carried away to market by schooners, the fire got in, and the flames of the fallen pines made a torch that lighted all that part of the country for more nights than one. There was no insurance and no remedy, and, as an old neighbor 307 MODERN STORIES told the unhappy owner, "the woods would not grow again in his time." John Finch was a cheerful man naturally, and very sure of the success of his plans; it was rare to see him so entirely down-hearted and dis- couraged, but lately he had seemed to his wife some- body to be protected and looked after even more than Polly. She sometimes felt the weight of the years she had lived, and as if she must be already very old, but he was the same boyish person to her as when she had married him; it often seemed possible that he should have his life still before him. She could not believe until very lately that it was too late for him to start out on any enterprise. Time had, indeed, touched him more lightly than it had herself, though he had the face and something of the manner and faults of an elderly and unsuccessful man. They sat together in the kitchen, which had sud- denly grown dark. Mary Finch was as cold as either of her companions, and was angry with herself for her shivering and want of courage. She was almost afraid to speak at last for fear of crying; she felt strangely unstrung and weak. The two women had told John of Polly's disappointment, that the agent for the dis- trict had given the school to his own niece, a young girl from Salem, who was to board at his house, and help his wife as much as she could with the housework out of school-hours. "It's all of a piece to-day," groaned the farmer. " I 'm sorry for ye, Polly." " She may hear of something yet," said Mrs. Finch, making a great effort to speak cheerfully. " You know they have her name at the normal school; people are 308 FARMER FINCH always sending there for teachers, and oftentimes one fails at the last minute through sickness, and I should n't wonder if Polly found a good place yet in that way." "I declare I don't know how we shall get along," moaned Polly's father, to whom his daughter's trouble seemed only a small part of the general misfortunes. "Here's winter coming, and I'm likely to be laid up any day with my rheumatics, and I don't see how we can afford even to take a boy to work for his board and clothes. I've got a few trees I can cut, and one cow I can sell; but there are the taxes to pay, and the minister, and money to lay out on fences, come spring. The farm ran behind last year, too." Polly rose impatiently and took down a lamp from the high chimney-shelf, knocking down the match- box as she did so, which was, after all, a good deal of relief. She put the light on the floor while she picked up the scattered matches, and her mother took a good look at her, and was somehow made to feel stronger at the sight of Polly's face. "I guess we'd all better have some supper," said the girl. "I never should feel so discouraged if I was n't hungry. And now I'm going to tell you what I mean to do. I 'm going to put right to and go to work out-doors and in, and I 'm going to help father same as if I were a boy. I believe I should like farming now twice as well as teaching, and make a good deal more money at it. I have n't a gift for teaching, and I know it, but I don't mean that what I learned shall be thrown away. Now we 've got hay for the stock, plenty of it, and we Ve got potatoes and apples and turnips and cider in the cellar, 309 MODERN STORIES and a good pig to kill, and so there's no danger that we shall starve. I 'm just as strong as I can be, and I am going right to work, at any rate until I get a school with a first-rate salary that '11 be worth more than my help will here." "I'm sure I don't want you to throw away such a good education as you've had, for us," said Mrs. Finch sorrowfully. "I want you to be somebody, Polly, and take your right place in the world." But Polly answered stoutly that she was n't sure it was a good education until she saw whether it was any use to her. There were too many second-rate teachers already, and she had n't any reason to suppose she would be a first-rate one. She believed that people had better learn to do the things they were sure to have to do. She would rather be a boy, and farm it, than teach any school she ever saw, and for this year, at any rate, she was going to see whether her book-learning was n't going to be some help at home. " I did the best I could at school," she said, "and it was easy enough to get my lessons, but now I've come against a dead- wall. I don't see but you both need me, and I 'm well and strong as anybody alive. I'd a good deal rather work at home awhile than be penned up with a lot of children, and none of us more than half know what we're about. I want to think a good deal more about teaching school before I begin to try in earnest." "I shall be glad to have you help your mother," said John Finch disconsolately, "and we'll manage to get along somehow." " Don't be afraid, father," responded Polly, in really 310 FARMER FINCH cheerful tones, as if she assumed her new situation for- mally at that moment. She went slowly down cellar with the lamp, leaving her parents in darkness; but by this time the tea-kettle had begun to sing, and a great glow of coals showed through the front slide of the stove. Mr. Finch lifted himself out of his chair, and stum- bled about to get the lantern and light it, and then went out to feed the cattle. He still looked chilled, and as if all happiness had forsaken him. It was some little time before he returned, and the table was already set, and supper was nearly cooked and ready to be eaten. Polly had made a pot of coffee, and drank her first cup with great satisfaction, and almost without taking breath; but her father tasted his and did not seem to care for it, eating only a little food with evident effort. " Now I thought you would relish a good cup of cof- fee," said his wife, with much concern; but the man answered sadly that he could n't eat; he felt all broken down. " It was a perishing day for you to take that long ride. It's the bleakest road round here, that marsh road is, and you hardly ate a mouthful of breakfast. I wish you had got something to warm you up before you started to come back," said his wife, looking at him anxiously. " I believe I '11 get you something now," and she went to find a treasured bottle, long stored away to be used in case of chill or illness, for John Finch was a temperate man. "I declare I forgot to milk," he said hopelessly. "I don't know 's such a thing ever happened to me before. I thought there was something else when I was out to 311 MODERN STORIES the barn, and I sat down on the grin'-stone frame and tried to think what it was, but I could n't." "I'll milk," said Polly; and she whisked upstairs and replaced her best dress, which had been already turned up and well aproned, by a worn old frock which she had used on days of cleaning, or washing, or other rough work, when she had lent a hand to help her mother. It was nothing new for her, a farmer's daughter born and bred, to undertake this work, but she made a distinct change of direction that night, and as she sat milking in the cold barn by the dull light of the lantern a certain pleasure stole over her. She was not without her ambitions, but they had never flown with free wings up an imaginary career of school-teaching. " I do believe mother and I can earn money enough to take care of us," she said to herself, "and next spring I'm going to set out as much land as father will let me have with strawberries." Her thoughts never were busier than that night. The two cows looked round at her with surprise, and seemed to value her good-natured words and hurried pats as she left them. She disturbed a sleepy row of hens perched on the rail of the hay- cart, and thought it was a pity there was not a better place for them, and that they should be straying about. "I'm going to read up some of the old numbers of the 'Agriculturist,' " she said, "and see what I can do about having eggs to sell." It was evident that Polly was fired with a great enthusiasm, but she remembered suddenly another new great interest which was a secret as yet even from her mother. This remembrance gave her a little uneasiness. 312 FARMER FINCH It was still early when the supper table had been cleared away, and the milk strained and set aside in the pantry. John Finch had drawn his chair close to the stove, and when his wife and daughter sat down also, ready to begin the evening which showed so little promise of hilarity, they saw that he was crying. "Why, father!" Polly exclaimed, half frightened, for this was something she did not remember ever see- ing since she was a child. And his wife said nothing, but came and stood beside him and watched him as if the vague sense of coming trouble which had haunted her all day was going to explain itself by some terrible crisis. "I'm all broken down," the poor man sobbed. "I used to think I was going to be somebody, and get ahead, and nothing has gone as I wanted it to. I 'm in debt more than you think, and I don't know which way to look. The farm don't yield me as it used to, and I don't grudge what we 've done for the girl, but it 's been all we could carry, and here she 's failed of getting a place to teach. Everything seems to go against us." This was really most sad and death-like; it truly seemed as if the wheels of existence had stopped; there seemed to be nothing to follow this unhappy day but disgrace and despair. But Polly was the first to speak, and her cheeks grew very red: "Father, I don't think you have any right to speak so. If we can't make our living one way, we will another. Losing that money in the bank is n't the worst thing that could have hap- pened to us, and now I am going to take hold with you right here at home, as I said before supper. You 313 MODERN STORIES think there is n't much that a woman can do, but we '11 see. How much do you owe ? " « But John Finch shook his head sadly, and at first re- fused to tell. " It would have been nothing if I had had my bonds to help me out," he finally confessed, " but now I don't see how I ever can pay three hundred dollars." In a little while he rose wearily, though it was only a little past six, and said that he must go to bed, and his wife followed him to his room as if he were a child. This breaking down was truly a most painful and fright- ful thing, and Polly was not surprised to be wakened from her uneasy sleep a few hours later, for she had worried and lain awake in a way that rarely happened, fearing that her father would be ill, and wondering what plans it would be best to make for his assistance in the coming year. She believed that they could do much better with the farm, and she made up her mind to be son and daughter both. Later Mrs. Finch called her, hurriedly coming halfway up the staircase with a light. "Your father is sick," she said anxiously. "I don't know whether it is more than a chill, but he 's in great pain, and I wish we could get the doctor. Can't you wrap up warm and go over to Minton's and see if they can't send somebody ? " "There's nobody there," said Polly; "the boys are both away. I '11 go myself, and get back before you begin to miss me;" and she was already dressing as fast as she could. In that quiet neighborhood she had no thought of fear; it was not like Polly to be afraid, at any rate ; and after a few words to her father, and mak- ing a bright fire in the little fireplace of the bedroom, 314 FARMER FINCH she put on her warm old hood and mittens, and her mother's great plaid shawl, and scurried away up the road. It was a mile and a half to the doctor's house, and with every step she grew more eager to reach it. The clouds had broken away somewhat, and the stars' bright rays came darting like glistening needles at one's eyes, so keen and piercing they were. The wind had gone down, and a heavy coldness had fallen upon the earth, as if the air, like water, had frozen and become denser It seemed another world altogether, and the old dog, that had left his snug corner behind the kitchen stove to follow Polly, kept close at her side, as if he lacked his usual courage. On the ridges the cedar trees stood up thinner and blacker than ever; the northern lights were making the sky white and strange with their mysterious light. Polly ran and walked by turns, feeling warmed and quickened by the exercise. She was not averse to the long walk at that time of night ; she had a comfortable sense of the strong young life that was he«s to use and command. Suddenly she heard the sound of other footsteps be- sides her own on the frozen ground, and stopped, feel- ing for the first time anything like fear. Her first impulse was to hide, but the road was wide and unshel- tered, and there was nothing to do but to go on. She thought next that it might be somebody whom she could send the rest of the way, and in another minute she heard a familiar whistle, and called out, not without relief, " Is that you, Jerry ? " The figure stopped, and answered nothing, and Polly hurried nearer, and spoke again. 315 MODERN STORIES "For Heaven's sake, what sends you out this time o' night?" asked the young man, almost impatiently; and Polly in her turn became a little angry with him, she could not have told why. "I'm not out for pleasure," she answered, with some spirit. "Father is taken very sick; we are afraid it is pneumonia ; and I 'm going for the doctor. There was nobody to send." "I was coming up from Portsmouth to-day," said the young man, " and I lost the last train, so I came on a freight train with some fellows I know, and I thought I 'd foot it over from the depot. We were delayed a good while or it would n't have been so late. There was a car off the track at Beverly." He had turned, and was walking beside Polly, who wondered that he had not sense enough to offer to call the doctor for her. She did not like his gallantry, and was in no mood for friendliness. She noticed that he had been drinking, but he seemed perfectly sober; it was between Jerry Minton and herself that something almost like love-making had showed itself not long before, but somehow any tenderness she had suspected herself of cherishing for him had suddenly vanished from her heart and mind. "I was all knocked of a heap in Salem this morning to hear that the bank had failed. Our folks will lose something, but I suppose it'll about ruin your father. Seems to affect him a good deal, don't it ? " " It has n't quite ruined us," said Polly angrily, and walked faster and faster. " I 've been turning it over in my mind to-day a good 316 FARMER FINCH deal," said Jerry. "I hope you will call on me for any- thing I can do, 'specially now your father 's going to be laid up." "Thank you," said Polly stiffly; and presently she stopped in the road, and turned and looked at him in a sharp and not very admiring way. "You might as well go home," she told him, not un- kindly. " I Ve got to the village now, and I shall ride home with the doctor; there 's no need for you to come back out of your way." And Jerry, after a feeble re- monstrance, obeyed. The doctor was used to being summoned at such hours, and when he found it was Polly Finch he dressed hurriedly, and came down, brimful of kindness and sympathy, to let her in. He listened almost in silence to what Polly had to say of the case, and then, taking a bottle here and there from his stores in the little room that served him as his office, he fastened his greatcoat, and pulled down the fur cap that had been a valiant helmet against the blows of many winter storms, and they went out together to the stable. The doctor was an elderly man and lame, and he was delighted with the brisk way in which his young companion stepped forward and helped him. The lantern that hung in the warm little stable was not very bright, but she quickly found her way about, and the horse was soon harnessed. She found that the harness needed tightening, the doctor having used it that day for another carriage, and as he saw her try it and rebuckle it, he felt a warm glow of admiration, and said to himself that not one woman in a hundred would have 317 MODERN STORIES done such a thing. They wrapped themselves in the heavy blankets and buffalo-skins, and set forth, the doctor saying that they could not go much faster than a walk. He was still a little sleepy, and Polly did not have much to say at first, except in answer to one or two ques- tions which he asked about her father's condition; but at last she told him of her own accord of the troubles that had fallen upon them that day. It already seemed a week to her since the morning; she felt as if she had grown years older instead of hours. "Your father has a bad trouble about the heart," said the doctor hesitatingly. " I think it is just as well you should know it, and if this is pneumonia, it may go very hard with him. And if he pulls through, as I hope he will if we catch him in time, you must see to it that he is very careful all the rest of the winter, and does n't expose himself in bad weather. He must n't go into the woods chopping, or anything of that sort." "I'm much obliged to you for telling me," said Polly bravely. " I have made up my mind to stay right at home. I was in hopes to get a school, but I could n't do it, and now I can see it was meant that I should n't, for mother could n't get along without me if father's going to be sick. I keep wishing I had been a boy," — and she gave a shaky little laugh that had a very sad tone in it, — " for it seems as if father needed my help on the farm more than mother does in the house, and I don't see why he should n't have it," she confessed, filled with the courage of her new opinion. "I believe that it is the only thing for me to do. I always had a 318 FARMER FINCH great knack at making things grow, and I never should be so happy anywhere as working out-doors and hand- ling a piece of land. I'd rather work with a hoe than a ferule any day," and she gave the queer little laugh again. Nobody would have suspected she found it so hard to bear the doctor's bad news. " But what is it you mean to do ? " asked the doctor, in a most respectful tone, though he was inwardly much amused. Polly hesitated. " I have been thinking that we might raise a good many more early vegetables, and ever so much more poultry. Some of our land is so sheltered that it is very early, you know, and it's first-rate light loam. We always get peas and potatoes and beans long before the Mintons and the rest of the people down our way, and there's no trouble about a market." "But you'll have to hire help," the doctor suggested. And Polly answered that she had thought of that, but she knew she could manage somehow. " It 's a new thing, you see, doctor," she said, much encouraged by his evident interest, "but I mean to work my way through it. Father has sold wood and sold hay, and if we had too much butter or too many eggs, and more early potatoes than we wanted, he would sell those; but it seemed as if the farm was there only to feed us, and now I believe I can make it feed a good many other people besides; and we must get money somehow. People let girls younger than I get married, and nobody thinks it is any risk to let them try housekeeping. I 'm going to try farmkeeping." The old doctor laughed. "You've got a wise head 319 MODERN STORIES for such a young one," he said, " and now I '11 help you every way I can. I 'm not a rich man, but I 'm comfort- ably off for a country doctor, and I Ve got more money put away than I am likely to use; so, if you fall short at any time, you just come and tell me, and nobody shall know anything about it, and you can take your own time to pay it back. I know more about doctor- ing than I do about farming, or I 'd give you plenty of advice. But you go ahead, Polly." Polly nestled down into the buffaloes, feeling already that she had become a business woman. The old wagon bumped and shook as they went along, and in the dim light Polly caught sight of the barberry bush, — only a darker shadow on the high bank at the side of the road, — and she thought of it affectionately as if it were a friend. Young Minton, whom they overtook at last, called out loudly some good wish that they might find Mr. Finch better, and the doctor asked sharply who he was, as they drove by. Polly told him, not without a feeling of embarrassment, which was very provoking to her. " I must say I never liked that tribe," said the doctor hastily. "I always hate to have them send for me." When they reached the farm, Polly urged the doctor to go into the house at once. There was a bright light in the kitchen and in the bedroom that opened out of it, and the girl was almost afraid to go in after she had led the horse into the barn and covered him with the blanket. The old sorrel was within easy reach of the overhanging edge of the haymow, and she left him munching comfortably. As she opened the inner door 320 FARMER FINCH of the kitchen she heard her father's voice, weak and sharp, and the doctor speaking in assuring tones with hearty strength, but the contrast of the two voices sounded very sad to Polly. It seemed to her as if she had been gone a great while, and she feared to look at her father lest he might have changed sadly. As she came to the bedroom door, the sight of her rosy-cheeked and eager, sorry face seemed to please him, and his own face brightened. "You're a good girl, Polly," said he. "I'm sorry you had such a bad time." He looked very ill already, and Polly could not say anything in answer. She re- built the fire, and then went to stand by the table, as she used when she was a little child, to see the doctor take out his doses of medicine. Very early in the morning Jerry Minton's mother came knocking at the door, which Polly had locked after the doctor had gone away in the night. She had pushed the bolt with unwonted care, as if she wished to bar the entrance to any further trouble that might be lying in wait for them outside. Mrs. Minton was ready with her expressions of sympathy, but somehow Polly wished she would go away. She took a look at the sick man, who was sleeping after the suffering and wakefulness of the night, and shook her head ominously, for which Polly could have struck her. She was an un- pleasant, croaking sort of woman, and carried in her whole manner a consciousness of the altered fortunes of the Finches; and she even condoled with Polly on her disappointment about the school. "Jerry spoke about meeting you going for the doc- 321 MODERN STORIES tor," she said, in conclusion. " I told him I did n't know what you would think about catching him out so late at night; but he was to Portsmouth, and mistook the time of the train. I've been joking him for some time past. I've about made up my mind there's some at- traction to Portsmouth. He was terrible took with that Miss Hallett who was stopping to the minister's in the summer." This was more than Polly could bear, for it was only a short time since Mrs. Minton had been paying her great attention, and wishing that she and Jerry would make a match of it, as the farms joined, and the farm- work was growing too heavy for her as she became older. "If you mean Mary Hallett, she was married in September to a young man in Boston, partner in a com- mission firm," said Polly; and Mrs. Minton, for that time at any rate, was routed horse and foot. " I hate that woman ! " she said angrily, as she shut the door, not very gently, after her. It was a long, hard illness that followed, and the younger and the elder Mary Finch were both tired and worn out before it ended in a slow convalescence that in its dangers and troubles was almost as bad as the ill- ness itself. The doctor was most kind and helpful in other ways than with his medicines. It was a most cheerful and kindly presence, and more than once Polly drove back to the village with him, or went with her own horse to bring him to the farm, and they became fast friends. The girl knew without being told that it would be a long time before her father would grow strong 322 FARMER FINCH again, if that time ever came at all. They had got on very well without help, she and her mother. Some of the neighbors had offered their services in-doors and out, but these latter offers were only occasionally accepted. The oxen had been hired by a man who was hauling salt hay to town, and Polly had taken care of the horse and the two cows. She had split the firewood and brought it in, and had done what little rough work had to be attended to in these weeks, in spite of her mother's unwillingness. To tell the truth, she enjoyed it after the heat and stillness of the house, and when she could take the time to run out for a little while, it was always to take a look at some part of the farm; and though many of her projects proved to be castles in the air, she found almost her only pleasure in these sad winter days in building them and thinking them over. Before her father's illness she would have turned most naturally to Jerry Minton for help and sympathy, for he had made himself very kind and pleasant to her then, Polly had been thought a good match, since she was an only child, and it was everywhere known that John Finch and his wife had both inherited money. Besides, it gave the more dignity to her position that she had been so long away at school, and such good accounts of her standing there had reached her native place; and Polly was uncommonly good-looking, if the truth must be told, which Jerry Minton's eyes had been quick to notice. Though it was known at once through the town what a plight the Finches' affairs were in, Jerry had come at first, apparently unconscious of his mother's 323 MODERN STORIES withdrawal of his attentions, with great show of sym- pathy and friendliness, to offer to watch with the sick man by night, or to be of any use by day, and he had been much mortified and surprised at Polly's unmis- takable repulse. Her quick instinct had detected an assumption of condescension and patronage on his part as well as his mother's, and the growing fondness which she had felt earlier in that season turned to a dislike that grew much faster in the winter days. Her mother noticed the change in her manner, and one night as they sat together in the kitchen Mrs. Finch whispered a gentle warning to her daughter. " I thought one time that there might be something between you and Jerry," she said. " I hope you won't let your duty to your fa- ther and me stand in the way of your settling yourself comfortably. I should n't like to think we were going to leave you alone. A woman 's better to have a home of her own." Polly turned so red that her mother could see the color even in the dim light by which they watched. " Don't you worry about me," said the girl. " This is my home, and I would n't marry Jerry Minton if hb were the President." That was a black and snowless winter until late in January. There, near the sea, such seasons are not so uncommon as they are farther inland; but the desola- tion of the landscape struck Polly Finch all the more forcibly since it was answered to by the anxiety and trouble that had fallen into her life. She had not been at home in midwinter for several years before, and in those earlier days she had never noticed the outward 3U FARMER FINCH world as she had learned to do as she grew older. The farm was a pleasant group of fields in summer, lying among the low hills that kept away both the winds from the sea and the still keener and bitterer northwest wind. Yet the plain, warm, story-and-a-half house, with its square front yard, with lilac and rose bushes, and the open side yard with its close green turf, and the barns and outbuildings beyond, was only a little way from the marshes. From Polly's own upper window there was an outlook that way over a low slope of one of the pasture hills, and sometimes when she felt tired and dreary, and looked out there, it seemed to her as if the half-dozen black cedars were standing there watching the house, and waiting for a still greater sorrow and evil fortune to go in at the door. Our heroine's life was not a little lonely, and it would have been much worse if she had not been so busy and so full of care. She missed the girls who had been her companions at school ; and from having her duties marked out for her by her teachers, and nothing to do but to follow set tasks, and do certain things at certain hours, it was a great change to being her own mistress, charged with not only her own but other people's welfare. The women from the few neighboring houses wha came in to pay friendly visits, or to help with the house- work, said very good things about Polly afterward. It had been expected that she would put on at least a few fine airs; but she was so dutiful, and worked so hard and so sensibly, and with such manifest willingness and interest, that no one could help praising her. A very old neighbor, who was still mindful of the proprieties 325 MODERN STORIES of life, though she had become too feeble to be of much practical use in the event of a friend's illness, came one afternoon to pay a visit. She was terribly fatigued after the walk which had been so long for her, and Polly waited upon her kindly, and brought her some refreshments, all in the middle of one of her busiest afternoons. Poor old Mrs. Wall! she made her little call upon the sick man, who was almost too weak to even show his gratitude that she had made so great an effort to keep up the friendly custom, and after say- ing sadly that she used to be a great hand to tend the sick, but her day was over, she returned to the kitchen, when Polly drew the big rocking-chair to the warmest corner, and entertained her to the best of her power. The old woman's eye fell upon a great pile of newspapers. "I suppose you are a great hand to read, after all your schooling ? " and Polly answered that she did like to read very much, and added : " Those are old numbers of the 'Agriculturist.' Father has taken it a good many years, and I 've taken to studying farming." Mrs. Wall noticed the little blush that followed this announcement, and did not question its seriousness and truthfulness. "I'm going to help father carry on the farm," said Polly suddenly, fearing that her guest might think she meant to marry, and only take the in-door part of the farm's business. "Well, two heads are better than one," said the old lady, after a minute's reflection; "only an old horse and a young one don't always pull well together. But 326 FARMER FINCH I can see, if my eyes are n't what they used to be, that you are a good smart girl, with some snap to ye. I guess you've got power enough to turn 'most any kind of a mill. There was my own first cousin, Serena Allen, her husband was killed in the last war, and she was left with two children when she was n't a great deal older than you be, and she run the farm, and lived well, and laid up a handsome property. She was some years older than I, but she has n't been dead a great many years. She'd plow a piece of ground as well as a man. They used to call her Farmer Allen. She was as nice a woman as I ever knew." Polly laughed more heartily than she had for a good while, and it did her father good to hear her; but later, when the visitor had gone, in spite of Polly's offer to drive her home a little later when another neighbor returned the horse, our friend watched her go away with feeble steps, a bent, decrepit figure, almost worn out with spending so many years in a world of hard work. She might have stood for a picture of old age, and Polly felt it as she stood at the window. It had never come home to her thoroughly before, the inevita- bleness of growing old, and of the limitation of this present life; how soon the body loses its power, and the strength of the mind wanes with it. All that old Mrs. Wall could do in this world was done, and her account was virtually closed. "Here I am just starting out," said unlucky John Finch's only daughter. "I did think I might be going to have a great career some- times when I was at school, and here I am settling down just like everybody else, and only one wave, 327 MODERN STORIES after all, instead of being a whole tide. And it is n't going to be a great while before I have as hard work to get up that little hill as old Mrs. Wall. But I 'm going to beat even her cousin, Serena Allen. I am going to be renowned as Farmer Finch." Polly found it very hard to wait until it should be time to make her garden and plant it, and every day made her more impatient, while she plied her father with questions, and asked his opinion so many times as to the merits of different crops that he was tired of the subject altogether. Through many seasons he had tried these same experiments, with not very great suc- cess, and he could not imagine the keen interest and enthusiasm with which Polly's soul was fired. She had never known such a late spring, and the scurries of snow in March and early April filled her with dismay, as if each had blighted and frost-bitten her whole har- vest. The day the garden was plowed was warm and spring-like, and John Finch crept out slowly, with his stick held fast in a pale and withered-looking hand, to see the work go on. He groaned when he saw what a great piece of ground was marked out by the long first furrows, and felt a new sense of his defeated and weak condition. He began to protest angrily at what he be- lieved to be his daughter's imprudent nonsense, but the thought struck him that Polly might know what she was about better than he did, and he fell back con- tentedly upon his confidence in her, and leaned on the fence in the sun, feeling very grateful that somebody else had taken things in charge, he was so dull and un- equal to making any effort. " Polly 's got power," he 328 FARMER FINCH told himself several times that day, with great pride and satisfaction. As the summer went on, and early potatoes from the Finch farm were first in the market, though everybody who saw them planted had believed they would freeze and never grow, and the other crops had sometimes failed, but for the most part flourished famously, Polly began to attract a good deal of attention, for she mani- fested uncommon shrewdness and business talent, and her enterprise, held in check by her father's experience, wrought wonders in the garden and fields. Over and over John Finch said admiringly, to his wife, "How Polly does take hold of things ! " and while he was quick to see the objections to her plans, and had failed in his own life affairs because he was afraid to take risk, he was easily persuaded into thinking it was worth while to do the old work in new ways. It was lucky that Polly had a grand capital of strength to live upon, for she gave herself little rest all summer long ; she was up early every morning and hard at work, and only wished that the days were twice as long. She minded neither heat nor rain, and having seen her way clear to employ a strong country boy whom the doctor had met in his rounds and recommended, she took care of the great garden with his help; and when she had occasion to do battle with the market-men who came foraging that way, she came off victorious in the matter of fair prices. Now that so much has been said about the days and the thoughts that led to the carrying out of so bold a scheme, it is a pity there is not time enough to give a history of the struggles and successes of that first sum- 329 MODERN STORIES mer. There never was a young man just "out of his time" and rejoicing in his freedom, who went to work more diligently and eagerly than Polly Finch, and few have set their wits at work on a New England farm half so intelligently. She managed a great flock of poul- try with admirable skill. Her geese walked in a stately procession all that summer to and from their pleasure- ground at the edge of the marsh, and not a hen that stole her nest but was tracked to earth like a fox and cooped triumphantly. She tinkered the rickety bee- hives that stood in a long and unremunerative row in the garden until the bees became good housekeepers and excellent providers for very shame. She gathered more than one of the swarms herself without a sting, and by infinite diligence she waged war successfully on the currant worms, with the result that she had a great crop of currants when everybody else's came to grief. She wondered why the butter that she and her mother made brought only a third-rate price, and bought a pound of the very best for a pattern, and afterward was sparing of salt, and careful to churn while the cream was sweet and fresh. She sold the oxen, and bought another horse instead for the lighter team, which would serve her purpose better; and every morning, after the crops began to yield, a wagon-load of some- thing or other went from the farm to market. She was as happy as a queen, and as well and strong as girls ought to be; and though some people laughed a good deal, and thought she ought to be ashamed to work on the farm like a man, they were forced to like her all the better when they saw her; and when she came 330 FARMER FINCH into church on Sunday, nobody could have said that she had become unwomanly and rough. Her hands grew to need a larger pair of gloves than she was used to wearing, but that did not trouble her; and she liked a story-book, or a book with more lessons in it still, better than ever she had. Two girls who had been her best friends at school came in the course of the summer to visit her, and were asked out into the garden, after the early breakfast, because she must weed the beets, and after sitting still for a while on a garden bench* they began to help her, and both got headaches ; but at the end of the week, having caught the spirit and some- thing of the enjoyment of her life, they would have been glad to spend the rest of the summer with her. There is something delightful in keeping so close to growing things, and one gets a great sympathy with the life that is in nature, with the flourishing of some plants and the hindered life of others, with the fruitfulness and the ripening and the gathering-in that may be watched and tended and counted on one small piece of ground. Everything seemed to grow that she touched, and it was as if the strength of her own nature was like a brook that made everything gveen where it went. She had her failures and disappointments, and she reaped little in some places where she had looked for great harvests. The hay was partly spoiled by some wet weather, but there was still enough for their own stock, and they sold the poultry for double the usual money. The old doctor was Polly's firm friend, and he grew as fond of her as if she were his own daughter, and could hardly force himself to take the money she brought back in 331 MODERN STORIES payment of a loan she had been forced to ask of him, unknown even to her mother, once when things went hard against her enterprise late in the spring. John Finch gained strength slowly all that summer, but his heart grew lighter day by day, and he and Polly made enthusiastic plans in the summer evenings for increased sheep-raising on their widespread pasture- land, and for a great poultry-yard, which was to bring them not a little wealth. And on Thanksgiving day, when our farmer counted up her gains finally, she was out of debt, and more than satisfied and contented. She said over and over again that she never should be happier than she had been that summer. But more than one short-sighted townswoman wondered that she should make nothing of herself when she had had a good education, and many spoke as if Polly would have been more admirable and respectable *if she had succeeded in getting the little town school teachership. She said herself that she was thankful for everything she had learned at school that had helped her about her farming and gardening, but she was not meant for a teacher. "Unless folks take a lesson from your exam- ple," said the doctor. "I Ve seen a good deal of human nature in my day, and I have found that people who look at things as they are, and not as they wish them to be, are the ones who succeed. And when you see that a thing ought to be done, either do it yourself or be sure you get it done. ' Here I 've no school to teach, and father has lost his money and his health. We 've got the farm; but I'm only a girl. The land won't support us if we let it on the halves.' That 's what you might have 332 FARMER FINCH said, and sat down and cried. But I liked the way you undertook things. The farm was going to be worked and made to pay; you were going to do it; and you did do it. I saw you mending up a bit of fence here and there, and I saw you busy when other folks were lazy. You 're a good girl, Polly Finch, and I wish there were more like you," the doctor concluded. "You take hold of life in the right way. There 's plenty of luck for you in the world. And now I 'm going to let you have some capital this next spring, at a fair interest, or none, and you can put yourself in a way to make something hand- some." This is only a story of a girl whom fate and fortune seemed to baffle ; a glimpse of the way in which she made the best of things, and conquered circumstances, in- stead of being what cowards call the victim of circum- stances. Whether she will live and die as Farmer Finch, nobody can say, but it is not very likely. One thing is certain : her own character had made as good a summer's growth as anything on her farm, and she was ashamed to remember that she had ever thought seriously of loving Jerry Minton. It will be a much better man than he whom she falls in love with next. And whatever may fall to her lot later, she will always be glad to think that in that sad emergency she had been able to save her father and mother from anxiety and despair, and that she had turned so eagerly and readily to the work that was useful and possible when her own plans had proved impossible, and her father's strength had failed. All that is left to be said of this chapter of her story is that one day when she was walking to the village on 333 MODERN STORIES one of her rare and happy holidays she discovered that, in widening a bit of the highway, her friend the little barberry bush was to be uprooted and killed. And she took a spade that was lying idle, the workmen having gone down the road a short distance, and dug care- fully around the roots, and put her treasure in a safe place by the wall. When she returned, later in the day, she shouldered it, thorns and all, and carried it home, and planted it in an excellent situation by the orchard fence; and there it still grows and flourishes. I suppose she will say to herself as long as she lives, when things look ugly and troublesome, " I '11 see if the other side \& any better, like my barberry bush." A DESCENT INTO THE MAEL- STROM By Edgar Allan Foe WE had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. "Not long ago," said he at length, "and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man, — or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of, — and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man, but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy ? " The "little cliff," upon whose edge he had so care- lessly thrown himself down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery edge, — this " little cliff " arose, a sheer un- obstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath 335 MODERN STORIES us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half a dozen yards of its brink. In truth, so deeply was I ex- cited by the perilous position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky, while I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long be- fore I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out into the distance. "You must get over these fancies," said the guide, "for I have brought you here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I mentioned, and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye." "We are now," he continued, in that particularizing manner which distinguished him, — " we are now close upon the Norwegian coast, in the sixty-eighth degree of latitude, in the great province of Nordland, and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher — hold on to the grass if you feel giddy — so — and look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea." I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer's account of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and 336 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island; or, more properly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land arose another, of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks. The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail, and con- stantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross-dashing of water in every direction, — as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks. "The island in the distance," resumed the old man, "is called by the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one mid- way is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Iflesen, Hoeyholm, Keildholm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off — between Mos- koe and Vurrgh — are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Skarholm. These are the true names of the places; but why it has been thought necessary to name them at 337 MODERN STORIES all is more than either you or I can understand. Do you hear anything ? Do you see any change in the water ? " We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we had ascended from the in- terior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the chopping character of the ocean beneath us was rapidly changing into a current which set to the east- ward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a mon- strous velocity. Each moment added to its speed, — to its headlong impetuosity. In &ve minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into frenzied convulsion, — heaving, boiling, hissing, — gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes, except in precipitous descents. In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These streaks at length, spreading out to a great dis- 338 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM tance and entering into combination, took unto them- selves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly — very suddenly — this assumed a distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven. The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous agitation. "This," said I at length, to the old man, — "this can be nothing else than the great whirlpool of the Maelstrom." "So it is sometimes termed," said he. "We Nor- wegians call it the Moskoe-strom, from the island of Moskoe in the midway." The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most circumstantial of any, cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnifi- cence or of the horror of the scene, — or of the wild, bewildering sense of the novel, which confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the 339 MODERN STORIES writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have been from the summit of Helseg- gen, nor during a storm. There are some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle. " Between Lofoden and Moskoe," he says, " the depth of the water is between thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh), this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equaled by the loud- est and most dreadful cataracts, the noise being heard several leagues off; and the vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth that, if a ship comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and there beat io pieces against the rocks; and when the water relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the stream is most boister- ous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It like- wise happens frequently that whales come too near the stream, and are overpowered by its violence; and then 340 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM it is impossible to describe their howlings and bellow- ings in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a de- gree as if bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea, it being constantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the coast fell to the ground." In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have been ascertained at all in the im- mediate vicinity of the vortex. The "forty fathoms" must have reference only to portions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe-strom must be im- measurably greater; and no better proof of this fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales and the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing that the largest ships of the line in existence, coming within 341 MODERN STORIES the influence of that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once. The attempts to account for the phenomenon — some of which, I remember, seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal — now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among the Feroe islands, "have no other cause than the collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is sufficiently known by lesser experiments." These are the words of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Kircher and others im- agine that in the centre of the channel of the Maelstrom is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very remote part, — the Gulf of Bothnia being some- what decidedly named in one instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed, my im- agination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that although it was the view almost universally entertained of the subject by the Norwegians, it nevertheless was not his own. As to the former notion, he confessed his inability to comprehend it; and here I agreed with him, — for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes alto- gether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of the abyss. 342 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM "You have had a good look at the whirl now," said the old man, " and if you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I ought to know something of the Moskoe-strom." I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded. " Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner- rigged smack of about seventy tons' burden, with which we were in the habit of fishing among the islands be- yond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea there is good fishing, at proper opportunities, if one has only the courage to attempt it; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen we three were the only ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the southward. There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these places are preferred. . The choice spots over here among the rocks, however, not only yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance; so that we often got in a single day what the more timid of the craft could not scrape together in a week. In fact, we made it a matter of desperate speculation — the risk of life standing in- stead of labor, and courage answering for capital. " We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than this; and it was our practice in fine weather to take advantage of the fifteen minutes' slack to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-strom, far above the pool, and then drop down upon anchor- age somewhere near Otterholm or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere. Here we used 343 MODERN STORIES to remain until nearly time for slack water again, when we weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition without a steady side wind for going and coming, — one that we felt sure would not fail us before our return, — and we seldom made a miscalculation upon this point. Twice during six years we were forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about here; and once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death, owing to a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in spite of every- thing (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently, that at length we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross-currents — here to-day and gone to-morrow — which drove us under the lee of Flimen, where, by good luck, we brought up. "I could not tell you the twentieth part of the diffi- culties we encountered ' on the ground,' — it is a bad spot to be in, even in good weather, — but we made shift always to run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-strom itself without accident, although at times my heart has been in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at starting, and then we made rather less way than we could wish, while the current rendered the smack unmanageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys of my own. These would have been of great 344 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM assistance at such times in using the sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing ; but, somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the young ones get into the danger, for, after all said and done, it was a horrible danger, and that is the truth. " It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth of of July, 18 — , a day which the people of this part of the world will never forget, for it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all the morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze from the southwest, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman among us could not have fore- seen what was to follow. " The three of us — my two brothers and myself — had crossed over to the islands about two o'clock, p. m., and soon nearly loaded the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven by my watch when we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst of the strom at slack water, which we knew would be at eight. " We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quar- ter, and for some time spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual, — something that had never hap- pened to us before, — and I began to feel a little uneasy, without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the 345 MODERN STORIES wind, but could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity. " In the mean time the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things, however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon us; in less than two the sky was entirely overcast; and what with this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack. " Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The oldest seaman in Norway never expe- rienced anything like it. We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first puff, both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off, — the mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety. "Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the strom, by way of precaution against the chop- ping seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once, for we lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had an opportunity of ascer- taining. For my part, as soon as I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against 346 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ring-bolt near the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do this, — which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done, — for I was too much flurried to think. " For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I held my breath and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I raised my- self upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard; but the next moment all this joy was turned into horror, for he put his mouth close to my ear and screamed out the word ' Moskoe-strom ! ' "No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from head to foot, as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what he meant by that one word well enough, — I knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the strom, and nothing could save us! "You perceive that, in crossing the strom channel, we always went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait and watch carefully for the slack; but now we were driving right 347 MODERN STORIES upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this! 'To be sure,' I thought, 'we shall get there just about the slack, — there is some little hope in that,' — but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been ten times a ninety-gun ship. " By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we did not feel it so much as we scudded before it; but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind and lay flat and frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singu- lar change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of clear sky, — as clear as I ever saw, and of a deep, bright blue, — and through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest distinctness — but, oh, God, what a scene it was to light up! "I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother, but, in some manner in which I could not un- derstand, the din had so increased that I could not make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers, as if to say, Listen! "At first I could not make out what he meant, but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at 348 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. It had run down at seven o'clock ! We were behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the strom was in full fury ! "When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep-laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath her, — which appears very strange to a landsman, — and this is what is called riding, in sea phrase. "Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with it as it rose — up — up — as if into the sky. I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance around, — and that one glance was all-sufficient. I saw our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-strom whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead, but no more like the every-day Mos- koe-strom than the whirl as you now see it is like a mill- race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognized the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in hor- ror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm. "It could not have been more than two minutes af- terward until we suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction 349 MODERN STORIES like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roarings noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek, — such a sound as you might imagine given out by the water-pipes of many thousand steam- vessels letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf which always surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment would plunge us into the abyss, down which we could only see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon. "It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung my nerves. "It may look like boasting, but what I tell you is truth, — I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own in- dividual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God's power. I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl itself. I positively felt a wish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my prin- 350 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM cipal grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy a man's mind in such extremity, and I have often thought since that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might have rendered me a little light-headed. "There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our present situation; for, as you saw yourself, the belt of surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these annoyances, just as death- condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indul- gences forbidden them while their doom is yet uncer- tain. "How often we made the circuit of the belt it is im- possible to say. We careered round and round for per- haps an hour, flying rather than floating, getting grad- ually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ring-bolt. My bro- ther was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water- cask which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. 351 MODERN STORIES As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act, although I knew he was a madman when he did it, — a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at all, so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing, for the smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel, — only swaying to and fro with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in my new position when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over. "As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively tightened my hold upon the barrel and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them, — while I expected instant destruction, and I wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and the mo- tion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took courage and looked once again upon the scene. "Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admiration with which I gazed about me. The 352 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in cir- cumference, prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds, which I have already de- scribed, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss. " At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. The general burst, of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in which the smack hung on the in- clined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even keel, — that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water; but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon the beam ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty in main- taining my hold and footing in this situation than if we had been upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved. "The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and 353 MODERN STORIES tottering bridge which Mussulmans say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist or spray was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel as they all met together at the bot- tom; but the yell that went up to the heavens from out of that mist I dare not attempt to describe. " Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried us to a great distance down the slope ; but our farther descent was by no means propor- tionate. Round and round we swept, — not with any uniform movement, but in dizzying swings and jerks that sent us sometimes nearly a few hundred yards, sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each revolution, was slow but very perceptible. "Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels, and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch with a strange interest the numerous things that floated in our com- pany. I must have been delirious; for I even sought amusement in speculating upon the relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam below. ■ This fir tree,' I found myself at one time saying, 'will cer- 354 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM tainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears;' and then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all, this fact — the fact of my invariable miscalculation — set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more. "It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more exciting hope. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from present observa- tion. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-strom. By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the most extraordinary way, — so chafed and rough- ened as to have the appearance of being stuck full of splinters, — but then I distinctly recollected that there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been completely absorbed, — that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or from some reason had descended so slowly af- ter entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either instance, that they might be thus whirled up again to the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in more early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important observations. The 355 MODERN STORIES first was, that, as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their descent; the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the one spherical and the other of any other shape, the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere; the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was ab- sorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this subject with an old school- master of the district ; and it was from him that I learned the use of the words 'cylinder' and 'sphere.' He ex- plained to me — although I have forgotten the explana- tion — how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments, and showed me how it happened that a cylinder swimming in a vortex offered more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty, than an equally bulky body of any form whatever. "There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing these observations, and ren- dering me anxious to turn them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel; while many of these things, which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirl- pool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little from their original station. " I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the water-cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother's 356 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my power to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my design; but, whether this was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach him; the emergency admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and pre- cipitated myself with it into the sea, without another moment's hesitation. "The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell you this tale, — as you see that I did escape, and as you are already in posses- sion of the mode in which this escape was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have further to say, — I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped over- board, before a great change took place in the char- acter of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew gradually less and less vio- lent By degrees, the froth and the rainbow disappeared, 357 MODERN STORIES and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-strom had been. It was the hour of the slack, but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the strom, and in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into the 'grounds' of the fisher- men. A boat picked me up, — exhausted from fatigue, and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions, but they knew me no more than they would have known a traveler from the spirit land. My hair, which had been raven -black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say, too, that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my story; they did not believe it. I now tell it to you, and I can scarcely expect you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden." JOS FIRST STORY FROM LITTLE WOMEN By Louisa M. Alcott JO was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish, and threw down her pen, exclaiming, — "There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better." Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript care- fully through, making dashes here and there, and put- ting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons ; then she tied it up wifh a smart red rib- bon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen, which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making 359 MODERN STORIES a circulating library of such books as were left in his way, by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript; and, putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink. She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as pos- sible, and, going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mys- terious. If any one had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street; having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the door- way, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street, and walked away as rapidly as she came. This manoeuvre she re- peated several times, to the great amusement of a black- eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out. There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and, after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gen- tleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down 380 JO'S FIRST STORY to post himself in the opposite doorway, saying, with a smile and a shiver, — "It's like her .to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need some one to help her home." In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face, and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod ; but he followed, asking, with an air of sympathy, — "Did you have a bad time?" "Not very." "You got through quickly." "Yes, thank goodness!" "Why did you go alone?" "Did n't want any one to know." "You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?" Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then began to laugh, as if mightily amused at something. "There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week." "What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said Laurie, looking mystified. "So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon ? " "Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing." "I 'm glad of that." 361 MODERN STORIES "Why?" "You can teach me, and then when we play * Ham- let/ you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene." Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves. "I'll teach you whether we play 'Hamlet' or not; it's grand fun, and will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying 'I'm glad,' in that decided way; was it, now?" "No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, be- cause I hope you never go to such places. Do you ? " "Not often." "I wish you would n't." "It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players; so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows." "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable, and be a satisfaction to your friends," said Jo, shaking her head. "Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability ? " asked Laurie, looking nettled. "That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come; and if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now." 362 JO'S FIRST STORY "Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously. "No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she 'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us asso- ciate with them." "Well, she need n't get out her bandboxes yet; I'm not a fashionable party, and don't mean to be; but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?" "Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you ? or there will be an end of all our good times." "I'll be a double-distilled saint." "I can't bear saints, — just be a simple, honest, re- spectable boy, and we '11 never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son; he had plenty of money, but did n't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid." "You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged." "No, I don't — oh, dear, no! — but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor; I should n't worry then." "Do you worry about me, Jo?" "A little, when you look moody or discontented, as you sometimes do; for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I 'm afraid it would be hard to stop you." Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips still smiled as if at her warnings. 363 MODERN STORIES "Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home ?" he asked presently. "Of course not; why?" "Because if you are, I'll take a 'bus; if you are not, I'd like to walk with you, and tell you something very interesting." "I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely." "Very well, then; come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours." "I have n't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had. "You know you have, — you can't hide anything; so up and 'fess, or I won't tell," cried Laurie. "Is your secret a nice one?" "Oh, isn't it! all about people you know, and such fun ! You ought to hear it, and I 've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin." "You '11 not say anything about it at home, will you ? " "Not a word." "And you won't tease me in private?" "I never tease." "Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler." "Thank you; fire away." "Well, I've left two stories with a newspaper man, and he's to give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear. "Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and 364 JO'S FIRST STORY catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children ; for they were out of the city now. "Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say; but I could n't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I did n't want any one else to be disappointed." "It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare, compared to half the rubbish that is pub- lished every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print; and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?" Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be be- lieved in; and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs. "Where 's your secret ? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encourage- ment. "I may get into a scrape for telling; but I did n't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is." "Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled, with a face full of mys- terious intelligence. "It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is." "Tell, then." Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and dis- 365 MODERN STORIES pleased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you know ?" "Saw it." "Where?" "Pocket." "All this time?" "Yes; is n't that romantic?" "No, it's horrid." "Don't you like it?" "Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My patience! what would Meg say?" "You are not to tell any one; mind that." "I did n't promise." "That was understood, and I trusted you." "Well, I won't for the present, anyway; but I 'm disgusted, and wish you had n't told me." "I thought you'd be pleased." "At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away ? No, thank you." "You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away." "I 'd like to see any one try it," cried Jo fiercely. "So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea. "I don't think secrets agree with me; I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," said Jo, rather ungratefully. " Race down this hill with me, and you '11 be all right," suggested Laurie. No one was in sight; the smooth road sloped in- vitingly before her; and finding the temptation irre- sistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb 366 JO'S FIRST STORY behind her, and scattering hair-pins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment; for his Atalanta came panting up, with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face. "I wish I was a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was cap- ital; but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves. Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But some one did pass, and who should it be b^t Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls. "What in the world are you doing here ?" she asked, regarding her disheveled sister with well-bred sur- prise. "Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up. "And hair-pins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. "They grow on this road, Meg; so do combs and brown straw hats." 'You have been running, Jo; how could you ? When will you stop such romping ways?" said Meg reprov- ingly, as she settled her cuffs, and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties. "Never till I 'm stiff and old, and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg: 367 MODERN STORIES it's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden; let me be a little girl as long as I can." As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trem- bling of her lips; for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time, and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face, and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine ? " "At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!" "Do you envy her, Meg?'^ said Laurie. "I'm afraid I do." "I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk. "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised. "Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said. "I shall never 'go and marry' any one," observed Meg, walking on with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and " behaving like children," as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on. For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door 368 JO'S FIRST STORY when the postman rang ; was rude to Mr. Brooke when- ever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a woe- begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talk- ing about "Spread Eagles," till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chas- ing Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers. " What shall we do with that girl ? She never will behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face. "I hope she won't; she is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with any one but her. " It 's very trying, but we never can make her commy lafo," added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way, — two agreeable things, which made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike. In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read. " Have you anything interesting there ? " asked Meg, with condescension. "Nothing but a story; won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight. 369 MODERN STORIES "You'd better read it aloud; that will amuse us and keep you out of mischief," said Amy, in her most grown-up tone. " What 's the name ? " asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet. "The Rival Painters." "That sounds well; read it," said Meg. With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused. "I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names ; is n't that queer ? " said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the "lovering part" was tragical. " Who wrote it ? " asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face. The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and, with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement, replied in a loud voice, "Your sister." " You ? " cried Meg, dropping her work. " It 's very good," said Amy critically. " I knew it ! I knew it ! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud ! " and Beth ran to hug her sister, and exult over this splen- did success. Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure? how Meg would n't believe it till she saw the words, " Miss Josephine March," actually printed in the paper; 370 JO'S FIRST STORY how graciously Amy criticised the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortu- nately could n't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead; how Beth got excited, and skipped and sung with joy ; how Hannah came in to exclaim " Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at "that Jo's doin's;" how proud Mrs. March was when she knew it; how Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she de- clared she might as well be a peacock and done with it; and how the " Spread Eagle " might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand. " Tell us all about it." " When did it come ? " " How much did you get for it ? " " What will father say ? " " Won't Laurie laugh ? " cried the family, all in one breath, as they clustered about Jo; for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little house- hold joy. "Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her "Evelina" than she did over her "Rival Painters." Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, " And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but did n't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said; and when the beginners improved, any one would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and to-day this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it, and insisted on seeing it, so I let him ; and he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he 's going to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, 371 MODERN STORIES for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls." Jo's breath gave out here; and, wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears ; for to be independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end. THE PETERKINS ARE OBLIGED TO MOVE FROM THE PETERKIN PAPERS By Lucretia P. Hale AGAMEMNON had long felt it an impropriety to live in a house that was called a "semi-de- tached " house, when there was no other " semi " to it. It had always remained wholly detached, as the owner had never built the other half. Mrs. Peterkin felt this was not a sufficient reason for undertaking the terrible process of a move to another house, when they were fully satisfied with the one they were in. But a more powerful reason forced them to go. The track of a new railroad had to be carried directly through the place, and a station was to be built on that very spot. Mrs. Peterkin so much dreaded moving that she ques- tioned whether they could not continue to live in the upper part of the house and give up the lower part to the station, They could then dine at the restaurant, and it would be very convenient about traveling, as there would be no danger of missing the train, if one were sure of the direction. But when the track was actually laid by the side of the house, and the steam-engine of the construction 373 MODERN STORIES train puffed and screamed under the dining-room win- dows, and the engineer calmly looked in to see what the family had for dinner, she felt, indeed, that they must move. But where should they go ? It was difficult to find a house that satisfied the whole family. One was too far off, and looked into a tan-pit ; another was too much in the middle of the town, next door to a machine-shop. Elizabeth Eliza wanted a porch covered with vines, that should face the sunset; while Mr. Peterkin thought it would not be convenient to sit there looking towards the west in the late afternoon (which was his only lei- sure time), for the sun would shine in his face. The little boys wanted a house with a great many doors, so that they could go in and out often. But Mr. Peter- kin did not like so much slamming, and felt there was more danger of burglars with so many doors. Agamem- non wanted an observatory, and Solomon John a shed for a workshop. If he could have carpenters' tools and a workbench he could build an observatory, if it were wanted. But it was necessary to decide upon something, for they must leave their house directly. So they were obliged to take Mr. Finch's, at the Corners. It satisfied none of the family. The porch was a piazza, and was opposite a barn. There were three other doors, — too many to please Mr. Peterkin, and not enough for the little boys. There was no observatory, and nothing to observe if there were one, as the house was too low, and some high trees shut out any view. Elizabeth Eliza Iiad hoped for a view; but Mr. Peterkin consoled her 374 THE PETERKINS MOVE by deciding it was more healthy to have to walk for a view, and Mrs. Peterkin agreed that they might get tired of the same every day. And everybody was glad a selection was made, and the little boys carried their india-rubber boots the very first afternoon. Elizabeth Eliza wanted to have some system in the moving, and spent the evening in drawing up a plan. It would be easy to arrange everything beforehand, so that there should not be the confusion that her mother dreaded, and the discomfort they had in their last move. Mrs. Peterkin shook her head; she did not think it pos- sible to move with any comfort. Agamemnon said a great deal could be done with a list and a programme. Elizabeth Eliza declared if all were well arranged a programme would make it perfectly easy. They were to have new parlor carpets, which could be put down in the new house the first thing. Then the parlor fur- niture could be moved in, and there would be two com- fortable rooms, in which Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin could sit while the rest of the move went on. Then the old parlor carpets could be taken up for the new dining- room and the downstairs bedroom, and the family could meanwhile dine at the old house. Mr. Peterkin did not object to this, though the distance was considerable, as he felt exercise would be good f or them all. Elizabeth Eliza's programme then arranged that the dining-room furniture should be moved the third day, by which time one of the old parlor carpets would be down in the new dining-room, and they could still sleep in the old house. Thus there would always be a quiet, comfortable place 375 MODERN STORIES in one house or the other. Each night, when Mr. Peter- kin came home, he would find some place for quiet thought and rest, and each day there should be moved only the furniture needed for a certain room. Great confusion would be avoided and nothing misplaced. Elizabeth Eliza wrote these last words at the head of her programme, — "Misplace nothing." And Agamem- non made a copy of the programme for each member of the family. The first thing to be done was to buy the parlor car- pets. Elizabeth Eliza had already looked at some in Boston, and the next morning she went, by an early train, with her father, Agamemnon, and Solomon John, to decide upon them. They got home about eleven o'clock, and when they reached the house were dismayed to find two furniture wagons in front of the gate, already partly filled ! Mrs. Peterkin was walking in and out of the open door, a large book in one hand, and a duster in the other, and she came to meet them in an agony of anxiety. What should they do ? The furniture carts had appeared soon after the rest had left for Boston, and the men had insisted upon beginning to move the things. In vain had she shown Elizabeth Eliza's programme; in vain had she insisted they must take only the parlor" furni- ture. They had declared they must put the heavy pieces in the bottom of the cart, and the lighter furniture on top. So she had seen them go into every room in the house, and select one piece of furniture after another, without even looking at Elizabeth Eliza's programme; she doubted if they could read it if they had looked at it. 376 THE PETERKINS MOVE Mr. Peterkin had ordered the carters to come; but he had no idea they would come so early, and supposed it would take them a long time to fill the carts. But they had taken the dining-room sideboard first, — a heavy piece of furniture, — and all its contents were now on the dining-room tables. Then, indeed, they selected the parlor bookcase, but had set every book on the floor. The men had told Mrs. Peterkin they would put the books in the bottom of the cart, very much in the order they were taken from the shelves. But by this time Mrs. Peterkin was considering the carters as natural enemies, and dared not trust them; besides, the books ought all to be dusted. So she was now holding one of the volumes of Agamemnon's En- cyclopaedia, with difficulty, in one hand, while she was dusting it with the other. Elizabeth Eliza was in dis- may. At this moment four men were bringing down a large chest of drawers from her father's room, and they called to her to stand out of the way. The parlors were a scene of confusion. In dusting the books Mrs. Peter- kin neglected to restore them to the careful rows in which they were left by the men, and they lay in hope- less masses in different parts of the room. Elizabeth Eliza sunk in despair upon the end of a sofa. " It. would have been better to buy the red and blue carpet," said Solomon John. "Is not the carpet bought?" exclaimed Mrs. Peter- kin. And then they were obliged to confess they had been unable to decide upon one, and had come back to consult Mrs. Peterkin. "What shall we do?" asked Mrs. Peterkin. 377 MODERN STORIES Elizabeth Eliza rose from the sofa and went to the door, saying, " I shall be back in a moment." Agamemnon slowly passed round the room, collect- ing the scattered volumes of his Encyclopaedia. Mr. Peterkin offered a helping hand to a man lifting a ward- robe. Elizabeth Eliza soon returned. "I did not like to go and ask her. But I felt that I must in such an emer- gency. I explained to her the whole matter, and she thinks we should take the carpet at Makillan's." " Makillan's " was a store in the village, and the car- pet was the only one all the family had liked without any doubt; but they had supposed they might prefer one from Boston. The moment was a critical one. Solomon John was sent directly to Makillan's to order the carpet to be put down that very day. But where should they dine ? where should they have their supper ? and where was Mr. Peterkin's "quiet hour" ? Elizabeth Eliza was frantic; the dining-room floor and table were covered with things. It was decided that Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin should dine at the Brom wicks ', who had been most neighborly in their offers, and the rest should get something to eat at the baker's. Agamemnon and Elizabeth Eliza hastened away to be ready to receive the carts at the other house, and direct the furniture as they could. After all, there was something exhilarating in this opening of the new house, and in deciding where things should go. Gayly Eliza- beth Eliza stepped down the front garden of the new 378 THE PETERKINS MOVE home, and across the piazza, and to the door. But it was locked, and she had no keys! " Agamemnon, did you bring the keys ? " she ex- claimed. No, he had not seen them since the morning, — when — ah ! — yes, the little boys were allowed to go to the house for their india-rubber boots, as there was a threat- ening of rain. Perhaps they had left some door un- fastened — perhaps they had put the keys under the door-mat. No, each door, each window, was solidly closed, and there was no mat! "I shall have to go to the school to see if they took the keys with them," said Agamemnon, "or else go home to see if they left them there." The school was in a different direction from the house, and far at the other end of the town; for Mr. Peterkin had not yet changed the boys' school, as he proposed to do after their move. "That will be the only way," said Elizabeth Eliza; for it had been arranged that the little boys should take their lunch to school, and not come home at noon. She sat down on the steps to wait, but only for a mo- ment, for the carts soon appeared, turning the corner. What should be done with the furniture ? Of course the carters must wait for the keys, as she should need them to set the furniture up in the right places. But they could not stop for this. They put it down upon the piazza, on the steps, in the garden, and Elizabeth Eliza saw how incongruous it was! There was something from every room in the house! Even the large family chest, which had proved too heavy for them to travel 379 MODERN STORIES with, had come down from the attic, and stood against the front door. And Solomon John appeared with the carpet woman, and a boy with a wheelbarrow, bringing the new car- pet. And all stood and waited. Some opposite neighbors appeared to offer advice and look on, and Elizabeth Eliza groaned inwardly that only the shabbiest of their furniture appeared to be standing full in view. It seemed ages before Agamemnon returned, and no wonder; for he had been to the house, then to the school, then back to the house, for one of the little boys had left the keys at home, in the pocket of his clothes. Mean- while the carpet woman had waited, and the boy with the wheelbarrow had waited, and when they got in they found the parlor must be swept and cleaned. So the carpet woman went off in dudgeon, for she was sure there would not be time enough to do anything. And one of the carts came again, and in their hurry the men set the furniture down anywhere. Elizabeth Eliza was hoping to make a little place in the dining- room, where they might have their supper, and go home to sleep. But she looked out, and there were the carters bringing the bedsteads, and proceeding to carry them upstairs. In despair Elizabeth Eliza went back to the old house. If she had been there she might have prevented this. She found Mrs. Peterkin in an agony about the entry oil-cloth. It had been made in the house, and how could it be taken out of the house ? Agamemnon made mea- surements; it certainly could not go out of the front door! He suggested it might be left till the house was 380 THE PETERKINS MOVE pulled down, when it could easily be moved out of one side. But Elizabeth Eliza reminded him that the whole house was to be moved without being taken apart Perhaps it could be cut in strips narrow enough to go out. One of the men loading the remaining cart dis- posed of the question by coming in and rolling up the oil-cloth and carrying it off on top of his wagon. Elizabeth Eliza felt she must hurry back to the new house. But what should they do ? — no beds here, no carpets there! The dining-room table and sideboard were at the other house, the plates, and forks, and spoons here. In vain she looked at her programme. It was all reversed; everything was misplaced. Mr. Peterkin would suppose they were to eat here and sleep here, and what had become of the little boys ? Meanwhile the man with the first cart had returned. They fell to packing the dining-room china. They were up in the attic, they were down in the cellar. One even suggested to take the tacks out of the parlor carpets, as they should want to take them next. Mrs. Peterkin sunk upon a kitchen chair. "Oh, I wish we had decided to stay and be moved in the house!" she exclaimed. Solomon John urged his mother to go to the new house, for Mr. Peterkin would be there for his "quiet hour." And when the carters at last appeared, carry- ing the parlor carpets on their shoulders, she sighed and said, " There is nothing left," and meekly consented to be led away. They reached the new house to find Mr. Peterkin sitting calmly in a rocking-chair on the piazza, watching 381 MODERN STORIES the oxen coming into the opposite barn. He was wait- ing for the keys, which Solomon John had taken back with him. The little boys were in a horse-chestnut tree, at the side of the house. Agamemnon opened the door. The passages were crowded with furniture, the floors were strewn with books; the bureau was upstairs that was to stand in a lower bedroom ; there was not a place to lay a table, — there was nothing to lay upon it; for the knives and plates and spoons had not come, and although the tables were there they were covered with chairs and boxes. At this moment came a covered basket from the lady from Philadelphia. It contained a choice supper, and forks and spoons, and at the same moment appeared a pot of hot tea from an opposite neighbor. They placed all this on the back of a bookcase lying upset, and sat around it. Solomon John came rushing in from the gate. "The last load is coming! We are all moved!" he exclaimed; and the little boys joined in a chorus, "We are moved! we are moved!" Mrs. Peterkin looked sadly around; the kitchen uten- sils were lying on the parlor lounge, and an old family gun on Elizabeth Eliza's hat-box. The parlor clock stood on a barrel; some coal-scuttles had been placed on the parlor table; a bust of Washington stood in the doorway, and the looking-glasses leaned against the pil- lars of the piazza. But they were moved ! Mrs. Peterkin felt, indeed, that they were very much moved. MISS BEITLAH'S BONNET By Rose Terry Cooke I DON'T want to be too fine, ye know, Mary Jane, — somethin' tasty and kind of suitable. It 's an old bunnit; but my! them Leghorns '11 last a generation if you favor 'em. That was mother's weddin' bunnit." " You don't say so ! Well, it has kept remarkable well; but a good Leghorn will last, that 's a fact, though they get real brittle after a spell : and you '11 have to be awful careful of this, Miss Beulah; it's brittle now, I see." "Yes, I expect it is; but it'll carry me through this summer, I guess. But I want you to make it real tasty, Mary Jane; for my niece, Mis' Smith, she that was 'Liza Barber, is coming to stay awhile to our house this summer, and she lives in the city, you know." " 'Liza Barber ! Do tell ! Why, I have n't seen her sence she was knee-high to a hop-toad, as you may say. He ain't livin', is he ? " "No: he died two years ago, leavin' her with three children. Sarah is a grown girl; and then there's Jack, he 's eight, and Janey, she 's three. There was four died between Jack and Sarah. I guess she's full eighteen." "Mercy to me! time flies, don't it? But about the bunnit : what should you say to this lavender ribbin ? " "Ain't I kind of dark for lavender? I had an idee to have brown, or mabbe dark green." 383 MODERN STORIES " Land ! for spring ? Why, that ain't the right thing. This lavender is real han'some; and 111 set it off with a little black lace, and put a bow on 't in the front. It '11 be real dressy and seemly for you." "Well, you can try it, Mary Jane; but I give you fair warnin', if I think it's too dressy, you'll have to take it all off." "I'm willin'," laughed Miss Mary Jane Beers, a good old soul, and a contemporary of her customer, Miss Beulah Larkin, who was an old maid living in Dorset on a small amount of money carefully invested, and owning the great red house which her grandfather had built for a large family on one corner of his farm. Farm and family were both gone now, save and except Miss Beulah and her niece; but the old lady and a lit- tle maid she had taken to bring up dwelt in one end of the wide house, and contrived to draw more than half their subsistence from the garden and orchard attached to it. Here they spun out an innocent existence, whose chief dissipations were evening meetings, sewing-societies, funerals, and the regular Sunday services, to which all the village faithfully repaired, and any absence from which was commented on, investigated, and reprobated, if without good excuse, in the most unsparing manner. Miss Beulah Larkin was tall, gaunt, hard-featured, and good. Everybody respected her, some feared, and a few loved her: but she was not that sort of soul which thirsts to be loved ; her whole desire and design was to do her duty and be respectable. Into this latter clause came the matter of a bonnet, over which she had held such anxious discourse. If she had any feminine van- 384 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET ity, — and she was a woman, — it took this virtuous aspect of a desire to be "respectit like the lave," for decency of dress as well as demeanor. This spring she had received a letter from her niece, the widowed Mrs. Smith, asking if she could come to visit her; and, send- ing back a pleased assent, Miss Beulah and her little handmaid, Nanny Starks, bestirred themselves to sweep and garnish the house, already fresh and spotless from its recent annual cleaning. Windows were opened, beds put out to sun, blankets aired, spreads unfolded, sheets taken from the old chests, and long-disused dimity cur- tains washed, ironed, and tacked up against the small- paned sashes, and tied back with scraps of flowered rib- bon, exhumed from hidden shelves, that might well have trimmed that Leghorn bonnet in its first youth. Mrs. Eliza Smith was a poor woman, but a woman of resource. Her visit was not purely of affection, or of family respect. Her daughter Sarah — a pretty, slight, graceful girl, with gold-brown hair, dark straight brows above a pair of limpid gray eyes, red lips, and a clear pale skin — had been intended by her mother to blossom into beauty in due season, and "marry well," as the phrase goes; but Sarah and a certain Fred Wilson, telegraph-operator in Dartford, had set all the thrifty mother's plans at defiance, and fallen head over heels in love, regardless of Mrs. Smith or anybody else. Sarah's brows were not black and straight, or her chin firm and cleft with a dimple, for nothing: she meant to marry Fred Wilson as soon as was convenient; and Mrs. Smith, having unusual common sense, as well as previous experience of Sarah's capacity of resistance, 385 MODERN STORIES ceased to oppose that young lady's resolute intention. Master Wilson had already gone West, to a more lucra- tive situation than Dartford afforded; and Sarah was only waiting to get ready as to her outfit, and amass enough money for the cost of traveling, to follow him, since he was unable to return for her, both from lack of money and time. In this condition of things it oc- curred to Mrs. Smith that it would save a good deal of money if she could spend the summer with Aunt Beulah, and so be spared the expense of board and lodging for her family. Accordingly she looked about for a tenant for her little house; and, finding one ready to come in sooner than she had anticipated, she answered Aunt Beulah's friendly letter of invitation with an immediate acceptance, and followed her own epistle at once, ar- riving just as the last towel had been hung on the various wash-stands, and while yet the great batch of sweet home-made bread was hot from the oven, and, alas for Miss Beulah ! before that Leghorn bonnet had come home from Miss Beers 's front parlor, in which she carried on her flourishing millinery business. Miss Larkin was unfeignedly glad to see Eliza again, though her eyes grew a little dim, perceiving how time had transformed the fresh, gay girl she remembered into this sad and sallow woman; but she said nothing of these changes, and, giving the rest an equal wel- come, established them in the clean, large, cool cham- bers that were such a contrast to the hot rooms, small and dingy, of their city home. Jack was a veritable little pickle, tall of his age, and light of foot and hand ; nature had framed him in body 386 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET and mind for mischief: while Sarah was a pleasant, handy young girl, as long as nothing opposed her; and Janey a round and rosy poppet, who adored Jack, and rebelled against her mother and Sarah hourly. Jack was a born nuisance: Miss Beulah could hardly endure him, he did so controvert all the orders and manners of her neat house. He hunted the hens to the brink of distraction, and broke up their nests till eggs were scarce to find, — a state of things never before known in that old barn, where the hens had dwelt and done their duty, till that duty had Consigned them to the stew-pan, for years and years. He made the cat's life a burden to her in a hundred ways; and poor Nanny Starks had never any rest or peace till her tormentor was safe in bed. Mrs. Smith began to fear her visit would be prema- turely shortened on Jack's account: and Sarah, who had wisely confided her love-affair to Aunt Beulah, and stirred that hardened heart to its core by her pathetic tale of poverty and separation, began to dread the fail- ure of her hopes also ; for her aunt had more than hinted that she would give something toward that traveling money which was now the girl's great object in life, since by diligent sewing she had almost finished her bridal outfit. As for Janey, she was already, in spite of her naughtiness, mistress of Aunt Beulah's very soul. Round, fat, rosy, bewitching as a child and only a child can be, the poor spinster's repressed affection, her de- nied maternity, her love of beauty, — a secret to her- self, — and her protecting instinct, all blossomed for this baby, who stormed or smiled at her according to the caprice of the hour, but was equally lovely in the 387 MODERN STORIES old lady's eyes whether she smiled or stormed. If Janey said, "Turn!" in her imperative way, Miss Beulah came, whether her hands were in the wash-tub or the bread-tray. Janey ran riot over her most cherished customs; and, while she did not hesitate to scold or even slap Jack harshly for his derelictions, she had an excuse always ready for Janey's worst sins, and a kiss instead of a blow for her wildest exploits of mis- chief. Jack hated the old aunty as much as he feared her tongue and hand : and this only made matters worse ; for he felt a certain right to torment her that would not have been considered a right, had he felt instead any shame for abusing her kindness. But a soft answer from her never turned away his wrath, or this tale of woe about her bonnet had never been told. There had been long delay concerning that article. The bleacher had been slow, and the presser imprac- ticable: it had been sent back once to be reshaped, and then the lavender ribbon had proved of scant measure, and had to be matched. But at last, one hot day in May, Nanny brought the queer old bandbox home from Miss Beers's, and Aunt Beulah held up her head-gear to be commented on. It was really a very good-looking bon- net. The firm satin ribbon was a pleasant tint, and contrasted well with the pale color of the Leghorn ; and a judicious use of black lace gave it an air of sobriety and elegance combined, which pleased Miss Beulah's eye, and even moved Mrs. Smith to express approbation. "Well, I'm free to own it suits me," said the old lady, eyeing the glass with her head a little on one side, as a bird eyes a worm. " It 's neat, and it 's becomin', 388 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET as fur as a bunnit can be said to be becomin ' to an woman, though I ain't really to call old. Mary Jane Beers is older than me; and she ain't but seventy-three, — jest as spry as a lark, too. Yes, I like the bunnit; but it doos — sort of — seem — as though that there bow wa'n't really in the middle of it. What do you think, 'Lizy?" " I don't see but what it 's straight, Aunt Beulah." " 'T ain't," said the spinster firmly. " Sary, you look at it." Sarah's eye was truer than her mother's. " 'T is a mite too far to the left, Aunt Beulah; but I guess I can fix it." "You let her take it," said Mrs. Smith. "She's a real good hand at millinery : she made her own hat, and Janey's too. I should hate to have her put her hand to that bunnit if she wa'n't; for it's real pretty — 'specially for a place like Dorset to get up." " Lay it off on the table, Aunt Beulah. I 'm going up- stairs to make my bed, and I'll fetch my workbasket down, and fix that bow straight in a jiffy." "Well, I must go up, too," said Mrs. Smith, and fol- lowed Sarah out of the room; but Miss Beulah, thougk duty called her too, in the imperative shape of a baicfe of bread waiting to be moulded up, lingered a little longer, poising the bonnet on her hand, holding it off to get a distant view, turning it from side to side, and, in short, behaving exactly as younger and prettier wo- men do over a new hat, even when it is a miracle of art from Paris, instead of a revamped Leghorn from a country shop. 389 MODERN STORIES She laid it down with a long breath of content, for taste and economy had done their best for her; and then she, too, left the room, never perceiving that Jack and Janey had been all the time deeply engaged under the great old-fashioned breakfast-table, silently ripping up a new doll to see what was inside it, — silently, because they had an inward consciousness that it was mischief they were about; and Jack, at least, did not want to be interrupted till he was through. But he had not been too busy to hear and understand that Aunt Beulah was pleased; and, still smarting from the switch with which she had whipped his shoulders that very morning for putting the cat into the cistern, he saw an opportunity for revenge before his eyes; he would hide this precious bonnet so Aunt Beulah could never find it again. How to do this, and not be found out, was a problem to be considered; but mischief is quick-witted. There stood in the window a large rocking-chair, well stuffed under its chintz cover, and holding a plump soft feather cushion so big it fairly overflowed the seat. Under this cushion he was sure nobody would think of looking; and, to save himself from consequences, he resolved to make Janey a cat's-paw: so he led her up to the table, made her lift the precious hat and deposit it under the cushion, which he raised for the purpose; then, carefully dropping the frill, he tugged Janey, un- willing but scared and silent, out into the yard, and, impressing on her infant mind with wild threats of bears and guns that she must never tell where the bon- net was, he contrived to interest her in a new play so intensely, that the bonnet went utterly into oblivion, 390 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET as far as she was concerned ; and when they were called in to dinner, and she had taken her daily nap, Janey had become as innocent of mischief in her own mem- ory as the dolly who lay all disemboweled and forlorn under the table. When Sarah came down and did not find the bonnet, she concluded Aunt Beulah had put it away in her own room, for fear a sacrilegious fly or heedless speck of dust might do it harm: so she took up a bit of lace she was knitting, and went out into the porch, glad to get into a cool place, the day was so warm. And when the bread was moulded up, Aunt Beulah came back, and, not seeing her bonnet, supposed Sarah had taken it upstairs to change the bow. She was not an impatient woman, and the matter was not pressing: so she said nothing about the bonnet at dinner, but hurried over that meal in order to finish her baking. Mrs. Smith had not come down again, for a morning headache had so increased upon her, she had lain down : so that no one disturbed the rocking-chair in which that bonnet lay hid till Mrs. Blake, the minister's wife, came in to make a call about four o'clock. She was a stout woman, and the walk had tired her. Aunt Beulah's hospitable instincts were roused by that red, weary face. " You 're dreadful warm, ain't you, Miss Blake ? " said she. " It 's an amazin' warm day for this time of year, and it 's consider'ble more 'n a hen-hop from your house up here. Lay your bunnit off, do, and set down in the rocker. I '11 tell Nanny to fetch some shrub and water. Our ras'berry shrub is good, if I do say it; and it 's kep' over as good as new." 391 MODERN STORIES So Mrs. Blake removed her bonnet, and sank down on that inviting cushion with all her weight, glad enough to rest, and ignorant of the momentous consequences. Her call was somewhat protracted. Had there been any pins in that flattened Leghorn beneath her, she might have shortened her stay. But Miss Mary Jane Beers was conscientiously opposed to pins, and every lavender bow was sewed on with silk to match, and scrupulous care. After the whole village news had been discussed, the state of religion lamented, and the short- comings of certain sisters who failed in attending prayer- meetings talked over, — with the charitable admission, to be sure, that one had a young baby, and another a sprained ankle, — Mrs. Blake rose to go, tied on her bonnet, and said good-by all round, quite as ignorant as her hosts of the remediless ruin she had done. It was tea-time now; and, as they sat about the table, Sarah said, " I guess I '11 fix your bonnet after tea, aunty: 't won't take but a minute, and I 'd rather do it while I recollect just where that bow goes." "Why, I thought you had fixed it!" returned Miss Beulah. "Well, I came right back, too; but it wa'n't here. I thought you 'd took it into your bedroom." "I hain't touched it sence it lay right here on the table." "I'll run up and ask ma: maybe she laid it by." But Mrs. Smith had not been downstairs since she left Aunt Beulah with the bonnet in her hands. And now the old lady turned on Jack. " Have you ben and carried off my bunnit, you little besom ? " 392 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET "I hain't touched your old bonnet!" retorted Jack, with grand scorn. " I don't believe he has," said Sarah ; " for, when I come downstairs and found it wa'n't here, I went out and set on the bench to the front-door, and I heard him and Janey away off the other side of the yard, play in' ; and you know they wa'n't in here when the bonnet come." " Well, of course Janey has n't seen it, if Jack has n't ; and, if she had, the blessed child would n't have touched old aunty's bonnet for a dollar — would she, precious lamb ? '" And Aunt Beulah stroked the bright curls of her darling, who looked up into her face, and laughed; while Jack grinned broadly between his bites of bread and butter, master of the situation, and full of sweet revenge. " And Nanny hain't seen it, I know," went on Aunt Beulah ; " for she was along of me the whole endur- in' time, She set right to a-parin' them Roxbury rus- sets the minnit she fetched home the bunnit ; and I kep' her on the tight jump ever sence, because it 's bakin'- day, and there was a sight to do. But I '11 ask her : 't ain't lost breath to ask, my mother used to say, and mabbe it's a gain." The old lady strode out into the kitchen with knit brows, but came back without any increased knowledge. " She hain't ben in here once sence she set down the bandbox; and, come to think on 't, I know she hain't, for I cleared the table myself to-day, and, besides, the bunnit wa'n't here at dinner-time. Now let 's hunt for it. Things don't gener'lly vanish away without hands; but, if we can't find no hands, why, it 's as good as the next thing to look for the bunnit." 393 MODERN STORIES So they went to work and searched the house, as they thought, most thoroughly. No nook or corner but was investigated, if it was large enough to hold that bon- net; but nobody once thought of looking under the chair-cushion. If it had been as plump and fluffy as when Jack and Janey put the lost structure under it, there might have been a suspicion of its hiding-place; but Mrs. Blake's two hundred pounds of solid flesh had reduced bonnet and cushion alike to unusual flat- ness. Or, if it had been any other day but Saturday, the chair might have been dusted and shaken up, and revealed its mystery; but early that very morning the house below stairs had been swept, and the furniture dusted, the cushions shaken out, the brasses polished, and all the weekly order and purity restored everywhere. The bonnet was evidently lost; and Jack, who had followed the domestic detectives upstairs and down, retired behind the wood-pile, and executed a joyful dance to relieve his suppressed feelings, snapping his fingers, and slapping his knees, and shouting scraps of all the expletives he knew, in the joy of his heart. How tragic would this mirth have seemed to a spectator aware of its cause, contrasted with the portentous gloom on Aunt Beulah's forehead, and the abstracted glare of her eye! For several days this deluded spinster mused and mazed over her bonnet, going to church on Sunday in her shabby old velvet hat, which had scarcely been respectable before, but now, in the glare of a hot May sun, not only showed all its rubbed and worn places, its shiny streaks and traces of eaves-drops in the de- pressed and tangled nap, but also made her head so 394 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET hot that she fairly went to bed at last with sick-head- ache, unable to attend evening service, — a most un- heard-of thing for her. Before the week was half done, she had settled into a profound belief that some tramp had passed while they were all out of the room, and, charmed by that lavender satin ribbon and black lace, stolen the bonnet, and carried it off to sell; and many a time did Miss Beulah sit rocking to and fro on top of her precious Leghorn, wondering and bemoaning at its loss. But murder will out — sometimes, and would certainly have come out in the weekly cleaning the next Saturday, if, on the Friday morning, Miss Beulah had not set down a pitcher of milk, just brought in by a neighbor, on the end of the table nearest to that rocking-chair, — set it down only for a moment, to get the neighbor a recipe for sugar gingerbread peculiar to the Larkin family. Janey happened to be thirsty, and reached after the pitcher, but was just tall enough to grasp the handle so low down, that when she pulled at it, steadying herself against the chair, it tipped sideways, and poured a copious stream of fresh milk on the cushion. The chintz was old, and had lost its glaze, and the feathers were light: so the rich fluid soaked in at once; and before the two women, recalled from the cupboard by Janey's scream, could reach the pitcher, there was only a very soppy and wet cushion in the chair. "For mercy's sakes!" said the neighbor. But Miss Beulah, with great presence of mind, snatched up the dripping mass and flung it out of the open window, 395 MODERN STORIES lest her carpet should suffer. She reverted to the chair in a second, and stood transfixed. "What under the everlastin' canopy!" broke from her dismayed lips; for there, flattened out almost be- yond recognition, and broken wherever it was bent, its lavender ribbons soaked with milk, the cheap lace limp and draggled, lay the remains of the Leghorn bonnet. "Of all things!" exclaimed the neighbor; but there was an echo of irrepressible amusement in her tones. Aunt Beulah glared at her, and lifted the damp bonnet as tenderly as if it had been Janey's curls, regarding it with an expression pen or pencil fails to depict, — a mixture of grief, pity, indignation, and amazement, that, together with the curious look of the bonnet, was too much for the neighbor; and, to use her own after- expression in describing the scene, she "snickered right out." " Laugh, do," said Aunt Beulah witheringly, — " do laugh ! I guess, if your best bunnit had ben set on and drownded, you'd laugh the other side o' your mouth, Miss Jackson. This is too much." "Well, I be sorry," said the placable female; "but it does look so dreadful ridiculous like, I could n't no- ways help myself. But how on earth did it git there, I 'd admire to know ? " "I dono myself as I know; but I hain't a doubt in my own mind it was that besom of a Jack. He is the fullest of 'riginal sin and actual transgression of any boy I ever see. He did say, now I call to mind, that he had n't never touched it; but I mistrust he did. He beats all for mischief that ever I see. I'm free to say 396 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET I never did like boys. I suppose divine Providence or- dained 'em to some good end; but it takes a sight o' grace to believe it: and, of all the boys that ever was sent into this world for any purpose, I do believe he is the hatefulest. I'd jest got my bunnit to my mind, calc'latin' to wear it all summer; and I am a mite per- nickity, I '11 allow that, about my bunnits. Well, 't ain't no use to cry over spilt milk." " I '11 fetch ye some more to-morrow," said the literal neighbor. "You're real good, Miss Jackson; but I'm more exercised a lot about my bunnit than I be about the milk — Sary, look a-here!" Sarah, just coming in at the door, did look, and, like Mrs. Jackson, felt a strong desire to smile, but with native tact controlled it. " Why, where on earth did you find it, Aunt Beulah ? " "Right under the rocker cushion. It must have ben there when Miss Blake come in that day and set down there; for I remember thinkin' Nanny must ha' shook that cushion up more 'n usual, it looked so comfortable and high." "I don't wonder it's flat, if Miss Blake set on't," giggled Mrs. Jackson, at which Aunt Beulah's face darkened so perceptibly that the good neighbor took her leave. Comedy to her was tragedy to the unhappy owner of the bonnet; and she had the sense to know she was alien to the spirit of the hour, and go home. " But how did it get there ? " asked Sarah. "You tell," replied Miss Beulah, "for I can't. I do mistrust Jack." 397 MODERN STORIES "Jack said he hadn't touched it, though; and it could n't get there without hands." "Well, mabbe Jack don't always say the thing that is. 'Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child,' Scriptur' says ; and I guess he hain't had enough of the rod o' correction to drive it out of him yet. He's the behavin'est youngster I ever see; and I'm quite along in years, if I be spry." "I'll call him, aunty, and see what he'll say this time." " 'T won't be no use : if he 's lied once, he '11 lie twice. Scriptur' says the Devil was a liar from the beginnin' ; and I expect that means that lyin' is ingrain. I never knowed it to be fairly knocked out of anybody yet, even when amazin' grace wrastled with it. There's Deacon Shubael Morse: why, he's as good as gold; but them Morses is a proverb, you may say, and always hes ben, time out o' mind, — born liars, so to speak. I 've heerd Grandsir Larkin say, that, as fur back as he could call to mind, folks would say, — 'Steal a horse, An' b'lieve a Morse.' But the deacon he's a hero at prayer, and gives heaps to the s'cieties; but he ain't reely to be relied on. He's sharper 'n a needle to bargain with; and if his word ain't writ down in black and white, why, 't ain't no- where. He don't read no novils, nor play no cards: he'd jest as lives swear outright as do one or t'other. But I do say for 't, I 'd ruther myself see him real hon- est than any o' them things. I don't believe in no sort o' professin' that falls short in practicing but I can't 398 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET somehow feel so real spry to blame the deacon as though he wa'n't a Morse. But you call Jack, anyhow." So Jack was called. He came in, with Janey, flushed, lovely, and dirty, trotting behind him, and was confronted with the bonnet. " Jack, did you hide it ? " " I hain't touched your old bonnet. I said so before." An idea struck Sarah. "Janey," she said sharply, "did you put aunty's bonnet under the cushion ? " "Janey don't 'member," said the child, smiling as innocently as the conventional cherub of art. "Well, you must remember!" said Sarah, picking her up from the floor, and setting her down with em- phasis on the table. Janey began to cry. "Naughty Salah hurt Janey!" and the piteous tears coursed down her rosy, dust-smeared cheeks from those big blue eyes that looked like dew-drowned forget-me- nots. Aunt Beulah could not stand this. "You let that baby alone, Sarah! She don't know enough to be naughty, bless her dear little soul ! — There, there, don't you cry a mite more, Janey. Aunty '11 give you ginger cooky this very minute!" And Janey was comforted with kisses and smiles and gingerbread, her face washed, and her curls softly turned on tender fingers; while Jack, longing for gingerbread with the preternatural appetite of a growing boy, was sent off in disgrace. 399 MODERN STORIES " I make no doubt you done it, you little rascal, and lied it out too. But I don't b'lieve you no more for your lyin' : so don't look for no extries from me. Fellers like you don't get gingerbread nor turnovers, now I tell you!" How Jack hated her ! How glad he was he had spoiled her bonnet! Shall I draw a moral here to adorn my tale ? No, dear reader : this is not a treatise on educa- tion. Miss Beulah was a good woman ; and if she made mistakes, like the rest of us, she took the consequences as the rest of us do ; and the consequences of this spoiled bonnet were not yet ended. She felt as if she must have a new one for Sunday. She really did not know how to afford it; for she had promised to help Sarah, and in her eyes a promise was as sacred as an oath. And as for giving up her sub- scriptions to home missions, that would be a willful sin. But, without a bonnet, she could not go to meeting; and that was a sin, too. So she put on her sun-bonnet; and taking the wreck of the Leghorn, carefully concealed in a paper, she set out after tea that same evening for a conference with Miss Beers, stopping at the post- office as she went along. She found one letter await- ing her, and knew by the superscription that it was from a second cousin of hers in Dartford, who had charge of such money of hers as was not in the savings bank or Dartford and Old bay Railroad stock, — a road paying steady dividends. But, besides the three or four thousands in these safe investments that Miss Beulah owned, she had two shares in a manufacturing company, and one in Dartford Bridge stock, from which 400 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET her cousin duly remitted the annual dividends; so, knowing what was in the letter, for the tool company's payment was just due, she did not open it till she sat down in Miss Beers 's shop, and first opened the Leghorn to view. "Of all things!" said Miss Beers, lifting up hands and eyes during Miss Beulah's explanations. "And you can't do nothing with it — never. Why, it 's flat- ter 'n a pancake. Well, you could n't expect nothing else, with Miss Blake on top't: she'd squash a baby out as thin as a tin plate if she happened to set on't, which I do hope she won't. See ! the Leghorn 's all broke up. I told you 't was dreadful brittle. And the ribbin is spoiled entire. You can't never clean lavender, nor yet satin, it frays so. And the lace is all gum: anyway, that's gone. Might as well chuck the hull into the fire." " So do, Mary Jane, so do. I never want to set eyes on't again. I have n't no patience with that boy now, and the bunnit riles me to look at. I do want to do right by the boy, but it goes against the grain dreadful. I mistrust I shall have to watch and pray real hard before I can anyway have patience with him. I tell you he's a cross to 'Liza as well as to me. But don't let 's talk about him. What have you got that '11 do for a bunnit for me ? " Then the merits of the various bonnets in Miss Beers's small stock were canvassed. A nice black chip suited Aunt Beulah well; and a gray corded ribbon, with a cluster of dark pansies, seemed just the thing for trim- ming. In fact, she liked it, and with good reason, better 401 MODERN STORIES than the Leghorn; but it was expensive. All the ma- terials, though simple, were good and rich. Try as she would, Miss Beers could not get it up for less than six dollars, and that only allowed twenty-five cents for her own work. The alternative was a heavy coarse straw, which she proposed to deck with a yellow-edged black ribbon, and put some gold-eyed black daisies inside. But Miss Beulah did want the chip. " Let 's see," said she. " Mabbe this year's dividend is seven per cent: 'tis once in a while. I'll see what Cousin Joseph says. If 't ain't more than usual, I must take the straw." But Cousin Joseph had to tell her, that owing to dam- age by flood and fire, as well as a general disturbance of business all over the country, the C. A. Company paid no dividend this year. "Then I shan't have no bunnit," said Miss Larkin firmly. "Why, you've got to have some kind of a bunnit," said the amazed Miss Beers. "I hain't got to if I can't." " But why can't ye, Beulah ? All your money and all your dividends ain't in that comp'ny." "Well, there's other uses for money this year be- sides bunnits." "You can't go to meetin'." "I can stay at home." "Why, Beulah Larkin, I'll trust you, and wel- come." "But I won't be trusted. I never was, and I never will be. What if I should up and die ? * 402 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET "I'd sue the estate," practically remarked Miss Beers. "No: 'out of debt, out of danger,' mother always said, and I believe in't. I shall hate to stay to home Sundays, but I can go to prayer-meetin' in my slat bunnit well enough." "Why, the church '11 deal with ye, Beulah, if ye neglect stated means of grace." "Let 'em deal," was the undaunted answer. Miss Beulah had faced the situation, arranged it logically, and accepted it. She had promised Sarah fifteen dol- lars in June. She had lost a dividend of twelve dollars on which she had reckoned with certainty; five dollars was due to home missions; and, with her increased family, there would be no margin for daily expenses. There were twenty dollars in the savings bank over and above the five hundred she had laid up for a rainy day, and left in her will, made and signed but last week, to little Janey. On this she would not trench, come what might, except in case of absolute distress; and the twenty dollars were sacred to Sarah and home mis- sions. But this was her private affair: she would not make the poverty of her niece known abroad, or the nature of her will. If the church chose to deal with her, it might; but her lips should never open to explain, — a commonplace martyrdom enough, and less than saintly because so much of human pride and self-will mingled in its suffering ; yet honesty and uprightness are so scarce in these days as to make even such a sturdy witness for them respectable, and many a woman who counts herself a model of sanctity might shrink from 403 MODERN STORIES a like daily ordeal. But Aunt Beulah set her face as a flint, and pursued her way in silence. June came and went; and with it went Sarah to her expectant bride- groom in Chicago, from whence a paper with due notice of her marriage presently returned. Aunt Beulah strove hard to make both ends meet in her housekeeping, and, being a close manager, succeeded. There was no mar- gin, not even twenty-five spare cents to take Janey to the circus; though she cut Aunt Beulah's heart with entreaties to be taken to see "lions an' el'phants," and said, "P'ease take Janey," in a way to melt a stone. For to get food enough to satisfy Jack was in itself a problem. Often and often the vexed spinster declared to Nanny, her sympathizing handmaid, — " 'T ain't no use a-tryin' to fill him. He 's holler down to his boots, I know. He eat six b'iled eggs for break- fast, and heaps of johnny-cake, besides a pint o' milk, and was as sharp-set for dinner as though he'd ben a-mowin' all the forenoon. 'Lizy says he's growin': if he grows anyways accordin' to what he eats, he'll be as big as Goliath of Gath, as sure as you 're born. I don't begrudge the boy reasonable vittles, but I can't buy butcher's-meat enough to satisfy him noway. And as to garden sass, he won't eat none. That would be real fillin' if he would. Thanks be to praise! he likes Indian. Pudding and johnny-cake do help a sight." But while Aunt Beulah toiled and moiled, and filled her wide measure of charity toward these widowed and fatherless with generous hand, the church, mightily scandalized at her absence from its services, was pre- 404 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET paring to throw a shell into her premises. It was all very well to say to Miss Beers that she was not afraid of such a visitation; but a trouble at hand is of quite another aspect than a trouble afar off. Her heart quailed and fluttered, when, one July afternoon, Nanny ushered into the dark, cool parlor Deacon Morse and Deacon Flint, come to ask her why she had not attended church since the middle of last May, when she was in usual health and exercise of her faculties. Miss Beulah, how- ever, was equal to the occasion. She faced the deacons sternly, but calmly. "It is so," she said, when they had finished their accusation. "I hain't ben to meetin' for good cause. You can't say I've did anything that's give occasion to the enemy more'n this. I've attended reg'lar to prayer-meetin's and sewin'-circle. I've give as usual to home missions. You can't say I've made any scan- dal, or done nothin' out o' rule, save an' except stayin' at home Sabbath days; and my family has attended punctooally." But this did not satisfy the deacons: they pressed for a reason. " If you would free your mind, Sister Larkin, it would be for the good of the church," said Deacon Morse. "Mabbe 't would n't be altogether to your likin', deacon, if I did free my mind. Seems as though stay- in' at home from meetin' wa'n't no worse 'n sandin' sugar an' waterin' rum; and I never heerd you was dealt with for them things." Deacon Morse was dumb, but Deacon Flint took up the discourse. 405 MODERN STORIES "Well, Sister Larkin, we did n't know but what you was troubled in your mind." "I ain't!" snapped Miss Beulah. " Or perhaps was gettin' a mite doubtful about doc- trines, or suthin'." " No, I ain't. I go by the 'Sembly's Catechism, and believe in every word on't, questions and all." " Well, you seem to be a leetle contumacious, Sister Larkin, so to speak: if you had a good reason, why, of course, you 'd be willin' to tell it." This little syllogism caught Miss Beulah. "Well, if you must know, I hain't got no bunnit." The deacons stared mutually; and Deacon Morse, forgetful of his defeat, and curious, as men naturally are, asked abruptly, " Why not ? " " Cause Mis' Blake sot on it." The two men looked at each other in blank amaze- ment, and shook their heads. Here was a pitfall. Was it proper, dignified, possible, to investigate this truly feminine tangle ? They were dying to enter into par- ticulars, but ashamed to do so; nothing was left but retreat. Miss Beulah perceived the emergency, and chuckled grimly. This was the last straw. The deacons rose as one man, and said, " Good-day," with an accent of reprobation, going their ways in deep doubt as to what they should report to the church, which certainly would not receive with proper gravity the announce- ment that Miss Beulah Larkin could not come to church because the minister's wife had sat on her Sunday bon- net. The strife of tongues, however, did not spare Aunt Beulah, if the. deacons did; and for a long time Miss 406 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET Beers, who had the key to the situation, did not hear any of the gossip, partly because she had been ill of low fever, and then gone to her sister's in Dartford for change of air, and partly, that, during July and August, the sewing-circle was temporarily suspended. But it renewed its sessions in September; and Miss Beers was an active member, sure to be at the first meeting. It was then and there she heard the scorn and jeers and unfounded stories come on like a tidal wave to overwhelm her friend's character. She listened a few minutes in silence, growing more and more indignant. Then, for she was a little woman as far as stature went, she mounted into a chair, and demanded the floor in her own fashion. "Look a-here!" said she, her shrill voice soaring above the busy clapper of tongues below. " It 's a burnin' shame to say a hard word about Beulah Larkin. She 's as good a woman as breathes the breath of life, and I know the hull why and wherefore she hain't ben to meetin'. She hain't had no bunnit. I made her as tasty a bunnit as ever you see last spring; and that jackanapes of a boy he chucked it under the rocker cushion jest to plague her, and Mis' Blake she come in and sot right down on it, not knowin', of course, that 'twas there; and, as if that wa'n't enough to spile it " (an involun- tary titter seemed to express the sense of the audience that it was), "that other sprig, she took and upsot a pitcher of milk onto the cushion, and you 'd better be- lieve that bunnit was a sight!" " Why did n't she get another ? " severely asked Dea- con Morse's wife. 407 MODERN STORIES " Why ? Why, becos she 's a'most a saint. Her divi- dends some on 'em did n't come in, and she 'd promised that biggest girl fifteen dollars to help her get out to her feller at Chicago, for Sary told me on't herself; and then she gives five dollars to hum missions every year, and she done it this year jest the same ; and she 's took that widder and them orphans home all summer, and nigh about worked her head off for 'em, and never charged a cent o' board; and therefor and thereby she hain't had no money to buy no bunnit, and goes to prayer- meetin' in her calico slat." A rustle of wonder and respect went through the room as the women moved uneasily in their chairs, exchanged glances, and said, "My!" which inspired Miss Beers to go on. " And here everybody 's ben a-talkin' bad about her, while she 's ben a real home-made kind of a saint. I know she don't look it; but she doos it, and that's a sight better. I don't b'lieve there 's one woman in forty could ha' had the grit and the perseverance to do what she done, and hold her tongue about it, too. I know I could n't for one." " She should n't ha' let her good be evil spoken of," said Mrs. Morse, with an air of authority. "I dono as anybody had oughter have spoken evil of her good," was Miss Beers 's dry answer; and Mrs. Morse said no more. But such a warm and generous vindication touched many a feminine heart, which could appreciate Miss Beulah's self-sacrifice better than the deacons could. There was an immediate clustering and chattering 408 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET among the good women, who, if they did love a bit of gossip, were none the less kindly and well-meaning; and presently a spokeswoman approached Miss Beers with the proposition, that, if she would make Miss Beu- lah a handsome bonnet, a dozen or more had volun- teered to buy the materials. " Well," said Miss Mary Jane, wiping her spectacles, " this is real kind ; and I make no doubt but what Beu- lah 'd think the same, though she 's a master-hand to be independent, and some folks say proud. Mabbe she is; but I know she could n't but take it kind of friends and neighbors to feel for her. However, there ain't no need on't. It seems that Sary's husband ain't very fore- handed, and she 's got a dreadful taste for the millinery business : so she 's gone to work in one of the fust shops there, and is gettin' great wages, for her; and only yes- terday there come a box by express for Miss Beulah, with the tastiest bunnit in it I ever see in my life, — good black velvet, with black satin kinder puffed into the brim, and a dark-green wing to one side of the band and a big bow in under a jet buckle behind. I tell you it was everlastin' pretty. Sary she sent a note to say she hoped Aunt Beulah 'd give her the pleasure to ac- cept it; for she'd knowed all along how that she was the cause of her goin' without a bunnit all summer (I expect her ma had writ to her), and she felt real bad about it. You 'd better b'lieve Beulah was pleased." And Miss Beulah was pleased again when the women from the village began to call on her even more fre- quently than before, and express cordial and friendly interest in a way that surprised her, all unaware as she 409 MODERN STORIES was of Miss Beers's enthusiastic vindication of her character before the sewing-circle. Yet, poor, dear, silly old woman, — only a woman, after all, — nothing so thrilled and touched her late-awakened heart as little Janey's soft caresses and dimpled patting hands on that sallow old face, when she climbed into her lap the next Sunday, and, surveying Miss Beulah's new bonnet, exclaimed, with her silvery baby voice, "Pitty, pitty bonnet ! " Jack did not say anything about it, nor did the con- gregation, though on more than one female face beamed a furtive congratulatory smile ; and Deacon Flint looked at Deacon Morse across the aisle. If there is any moral to this story, as no doubt there should be, it lies in the fact that Mrs. Blake never again sat down in a chair without first lifting the cushion. THE ARCHBISHOP'S VISIT By Agnes Repplier TT was the middle of May when the Archbishop -■- came, and as the weather was warm, we wore our white frocks for the occasion. Very immaculate we looked, ranged in a deep, shining semicircle, a blue ribbon around every neck, and gloves on every folded hand. It would have been considered the height of impropriety to receive, ungloved, a distinguished visitor. As the prelate entered, accompanied by the Superior- ess and the Mistress General, we swept him a deep curtsy, — oh, the hours of bitter practice it took to limber my stiff little knees for those curtsies ! — and then broke at once into our chorus of welcome : — "With happy hearts we now repair All in this joyous scene to share." There were five verses. When we had finished, we curtsied again and sat down, while Mary Rawdon and Eleanor Hale played a nervous duet upon the piano. The Archbishop looked at us benignantly. It was said of him that he dearly loved children, but that he was apt to be bored by adults. He had not what are called "social gifts," and seldom went beyond the com- mon civilities of intercourse. But he would play jack- straws all evening with half a dozen children, and apparently find himself much refreshed by the enter- 411 MODERN STORIES tainment. His eyes wandered during the duet to the ends of the semicircle, where sat the very little girls, as rigidly still as cataleptics. Wriggling was not then deemed the prescriptive right of childhood. An acute observer might perhaps have thought that the Arch- bishop, seated majestically on his dais, and flanked by Reverend Mother and Madame Bouron, glanced wistfully at these motionless little figures. We were, in truth, as remote from him as if we had been on another continent. Easy familiarity with our superiors was a thing undreamed of in our philosophy. The standards of good behavior raised an impassable bar- rier between us. Frances Fenton made the address. It was an honor once accorded to Elizabeth, but usually reserved as a reward for superhuman virtue. Not on that score had Elizabeth ever enjoyed it. Frances was first blue ribbon, first medallion, and head of the Children of Mary. There was nothing left for her but beatifica- tion. She stepped slowly, and with what was called a "modest grace," into the middle of the room, curtsied, and began : — "Your children's simple hearts would speak, But cannot find the words they seek. These tones no music's spell can lend ; And eloquence would vainly come To greet our Father, Guide, and Friend. Let hearts now speak, and lips be dumb ! " " Then why is n't she dumb ? " whispered Tony aggressively, but without changing a muscle of her attentive face. I pretended not to hear her. I had little enough dis- 412 THE ARCHBISHOP'S VISIT cretion, Heaven knows, but even I felt the ripe unwis- dom of whispering at such a time. It was Mary Raw- don's absence, at the piano, I may observe, that placed me in this perilous proximity. "Our reverence fond and hopeful prayer Will deck with light one empty place, And fill with love one vacant chair." "What chair?" asked Tony, and again I pretended not to hear. "For e'en regret can wear a softened grace, And smiling hope in whispers low Will oft this cherished thought bestow: Within the Eternal City's sacred wall, He who has blest us in our Convent hall Can now to us earth's holiest blessing bring From God's great martyr saint, Rome's pontiff king." At this point, Tony, maddened by my unresponsive- ness, shot out a dexterous little leg (I don't see how she dared to do it, when our skirts were so short), and, with lightning speed, kicked me viciously on the shins. The anguish was acute, but my sense of self-preserva- tion saved me from so much as a grimace. Madame Bouron's lynx-like gaze was traveling down our ranks, and, as it rested on me for an instant, I felt that she must see the smart. Tony's expression was one of rapt and reverent interest. By the time I had mastered my emotions, and collected my thoughts, the address was over, and the Archbishop was saying a few words about his coming voyage, and about the Holy Father, for whom he bade us pray. Then, with commendable promptness, he broached the important subject of the 413 MODERN STORIES conge. There was the usual smiling demur on Rever- end Mother's part. The children had so many holi- days ("I like that!" snorted Tony), so many interrup- tions to their work. It was so hard to bring them back again to quiet and orderly ways. If she granted this indulgence, we must promise to study with double dili- gence for the approaching examinations. Finally she yielded, as became a dutiful daughter of the Church; the first of June, ten days off, was fixed as the date; and we gave a hearty round of applause, in token of our gratitude and relief. After this, we rather expected our august visitor to go away; but his eyes had strayed again to the motionless little girls at the horns of the semicircle; and, as if they afforded him an inspira- tion, he said something in low, rather urgent tones to Reverend Mother, — something to which she listened graciously. " They will be only too proud and happy," we heard her murmur; and then she raised her voice. "Children," she said impressively, "his Grace is good enough to ask that you should escort him to the woods this afternoon. Put on your hats and go." This was an innovation ! Put on our hats at four o'clock — the hour for French class — and walk to the woods with the Archbishop. It was delightful, of course, but a trifle awesome. If, in his ignorance, he fancied we should gambol around him like silly lambs, he was soon to discover his mistake. Our line of march more closely resembled that of a well-drilled army. Madame Bouron walked on his right hand, and Ma- dame Duncan on his left. The ribbons, the graduates, 414 THE ARCHBISHOP'S VISIT and a few sedate girls from the first class closed into a decorous group, half of them walking backwards, — a convent custom in which we were wonderfully expert. The flanks of the army were composed of younger and less distinguished girls, while the small fry hovered on its borders, out of sight and hearing. We moved slowly, without scattering, and without obvious exhilaration. I was occupied in freeing my mind in many bitter words to Tony, who defended her conduct on the score of my "setting up for sainthood," — an accusation the novelty of which ought to have made it agreeable. When we reached the lake, a tiny sheet of water with a Lilliputian island, we came to a halt. The Archbishop had evidently expressed some desire, or at least some readiness, to trust himself upon the waves. The boat was unmoored, and Frances Fenton and Ella Holrook rowed him carefully around the island, while the rest of us were drawn up on shore to witness the perform- ance. We made, no doubt, a very nice picture in our white frocks and blue neck ribbons; but we were spec- tators merely, still far remote from any sense of com- panionship. When the boat was close to shore, the iirchbishop refused to land. He sat in the stern, look- ing at us with a curious smile. He was strikingly hand- some, — a long, lean, noble-looking old man, — and he had a voice of wonderful sweetness and power. It was said that, even at sixty -five, he sang the Mass more beautifully than any priest in his diocese. Therefore it was a little alarming when he suddenly asked : — " My children, do you know any pretty songs ? " "Oh, yes, your Grace," answered Madame Bouron. 415 MODERN STORIES "Then sing me something now," said the Archbishop, still with that inscrutable smile. There was a moment's hesitation, a moment's em- barrassment, and then, acting under instruction, we sang (or, at least, some of us did; there was no music in my soul) the " Canadian Boat-Song," and " Star of the Sea," — appropriate, both of them, to the watery expanse before us. "Ave Maria, we lift our eyes to thee ; Ora pro nobis ; 't is night far o'er the sea." The Archbishop listened attentively, and with an evident pleasure that must have been wholly disasso- ciated from any musical sense. Then his smile deepened. "Would you like me to sing for you ?" he said. "Oh, yes, if you please," we shrilled; and Madame Bouron gave us a warning glance. " Be very still, chil- dren," she admonished. "His Grace is going to sing." His Grace settled himself comfortably in the boat. His amused glance traveled over our expectant faces, and sought as usual the little girls, now close to the water's edge. Then he cleared his throat and, as I am a Christian gentlewoman, and a veracious chronicler, this is the song he sang: — "In King Arthur's reign, a merry reign, Three children were sent from their homes, Were sent from their homes, were sent from their homes, And they never went back again. "The first, he was a miller, The second, he was a weaver, The third, he was a little tailor boy, Three big rogues together." 416 THE ARCHBISHOP'S VISIT " Can't you join in the chorus, children ? " inter- rupted the Archbishop. "Come! the last two lines of every verse." "The third, he was a little tailor boy, Three big rogues together." Our voices rose in a quavering accompaniment to his mellifluous notes. We were petrified; but, even in a state of petrification, we did as we were bidden. "The miller, he stole corn, The weaver, he stole yarn, And the little tailor boy, he stole broadcloth, To keep these three rogues warm." "Chorus!" commanded the Archbishop; and this time our voices were louder and more assured. "And the little tailor boy, he stole broadcloth, To keep these three rogues warm." " The miller was drowned in his dam, The weaver was hung by his yarn, But the Devil ran away with the little tailor boy, With the broadcloth under his arm." There was a joyous shout from our ranks. We under- stood it all now. The Archbishop was misbehaving him- self, was flaunting his misbehavior in Madame Bouron's face. We knew very well what would be said to us, if we sang a song like that, without the Archiepiscopal sanction, and there was a delicious sense of impunity in our hearts, as we vociferated the unhallowed lines : — "But the Devil ran away with the little tailor boy, With the broadcloth under his arm." Then the Archbishop stepped out of the boat, and there was a timid scramble to his side. The barriers 417 MODERN STORIES were down. He had knocked at our hearts in the Devil's name, and we had flung them wide. The return to the convent was like a rout ; — little girls wedging their way in among big girls, the Second Cours contesting every step of the path with the First Cours, the most insignificant children lifted suddenly to prominence and distinction. I was too shy to do more than move restlessly on the outskirts of the crowd ; but I saw Tony conversing affably with the Archbishop (and looking as gentle as she was intelligent), and Viola Milton kiss- ing his ring with the assurance of an infant Aloysius. When he bade us good-by, we shouted and waved our handkerchiefs until he was out of sight. He turned at the end of the avenue, and waved his in a last friendly salutation. That was very long ago. I trust that in Paradise the Holy Innocents are now bearing him com- pany, for I truly believe his soul would weary of the society of grown-up saints. MAHALA JOE By Mary Austin |~N the campoodie of Three Pines, which you proba- -■- bly know better by its Spanish name of Tres Pinos, there is an Indian, well thought of among his own peo- ple, who goes about wearing a woman's dress, and is known as Mahala Joe. He should be about fifty years old by this time, and has a quiet, kindly face. Some- times he tucks up the skirt of his woman's dress over a pair of blue overalls when he has a man's work to do, but at feasts and dances he wears a ribbon around his waist and a handkerchief on his head as the other ma- halas do. He is much looked to because of his know- ledge of white people and their ways, and if it were not for the lines of deep sadness that fall in his face when at rest, one might forget that the woman's gear is the badge of an all but intolerable shame. At least it was so used by the Paiutes, but when you have read this full and true account of how it was first put on, you may not think it so. Fifty years ago the valley about Tres Pinos was all one sea of moving grass and dusky, greenish sage, cropped over by deer and antelope, north as far as To- gobah, and south to the Bitter Lake. Beside every con- siderable stream which flowed into it from the Sierras 419 MODERN STORIES was a Paiute campoodie, and all they knew of white people was by hearsay from the tribes across the moun- tains. But soon enough cattlemen began to push their herds through the Sierra passes to the Paiutes' feeding- ground. The Indians saw them come, and though they were not very well pleased, they held still by the coun- sel of their old men ; night and day they made medicine and prayed that the white men might go away. Among the first of the cattlemen in the valley about Tres Pinos was Joe Baker, who brought a young wife, and built his house not far from the campoodie. The Indian women watched her curiously from afar because of a whisper that ran among the wattled huts. When the year was far gone, and the sun-cured grasses curled whitish brown, a doctor came riding hard from the fort at Edswick, forty miles to the south, and though they watched, they did not see him ride away. It was the third day at evening when Joe Baker came walk- ing towards the campoodie, and his face was set and sad. He carried something rolled in a blanket, and looked anxiously at the women as he went between the huts. It was about the hour of the evening meal, and the mahalas sat about the fires watching the cooking- pots. He came at last opposite a young woman who sat nursing her child. She had a bright, pleasant face, and her little one seemed about six months old. Her husband stood near and watched them with great pride. Joe Baker knelt down in front of the mahala, and opened the roll of blankets. He showed her a day-old baby that wrinkled up its small face and cried. 420 MAHALA JOE "Its mother is dead," said the cattleman. The young Indian mother did not know English, but she did not need speech to know what had happened. She looked pitifully at the child, and at her husband timidly. Joe Baker went and laid his rifle and cartridge belt at the Paiute's feet. The Indian picked up the gun and fin- gered it; his wife smiled. She put down her own child, and lifted the little white stranger to her breast. It nozzled against her and hushed its crying; the young mother laughed. "See how greedy it is," she said; "it is truly white." She drew up the blanket around the child and com- forted it. The cattleman called to him one of the Indians who could speak a little English. " Tell her," he said, " that I wish her to care for the child. His name is Walter. Tell her that she is to come to my house for everything he needs, and for every month that he keeps fat and well she shall have a fat steer from my herd." So it was agreed. As soon as Walter was old enough he came to sleep at his father's house, but the Indian woman, whom he called Ebia, came every day to tend him. Her son was his brother, and Walter learned to speak Paiute before he learned English. The two boys were always together, but as yet the little Indian had no name. It is not the custom among Paiutes to give names to those who have not done anything worth naming. "But I have a name," said Walter, "and so shall he. I will call him Joe. That is my father's name, and it is a good name, too." 421 MODERN STORIES When Mr. Baker was away with the cattle Walter slept at the campoodie, and Joe's mother made him a buckskin shirt. At that time he was so brown with the sun and the wind that only by his eyes could you tell that he was white; he was also very happy. But as this is to be the story of how Joe came to the wearing of a woman's dress, I cannot tell you all the plays they had, how they went on their first hunting, nor what they found in the creek of Tres Pinos. The beginning of the whole affair of Mahala Joe must be laid to the arrow-maker. The arrow-maker had a stiff knee from a wound in a long-gone battle, and for that reason he sat in the shade of his wickiup, and chipped arrow points from flakes of obsidian that the young men brought him from Togobah, fitting them to shafts of reeds from the river marsh. He used to coax the boys to wade in the brown water and cut the reeds, for the dampness made his knee ache. They drove bargains with him for arrows for their own hunt- ing, or for the sake of the stories he could tell. For an armful of reeds he would make three arrows, and for a double armful he would tell tales. These were mostly of great huntings and old wars, but when it was winter, and no snakes in the long grass to overhear, he would tell Wonder-stories. The boys would lie with their toes in the warm ashes, and the arrow-maker would begin. "You can see," said the arrow-maker, "on the top of Waban the tall boulder looking on the valleys east and west. That is the very boundary between the Paiute country and Shoshone land. The boulder is a hundred times taller than the tallest man, and thicker through 422 MAHALA JOE than six horses standing nose to tail; the shadow of it falls all down the slope. At mornings it falls toward the Paiute peoples, and evenings it falls on Shoshone land. Now on this side of the valley, beginning at the campoodie, you will see a row of pine trees standing all upstream one behind another. See, the long branches grow on the side toward the hill ; and some may tell you it is because of the way the wind blows, but I say it is because they reach out in a hurry to get up the moun- tains. Now I will tell you how these things came about. "Very long ago all the Paiutes of this valley were ruled by two brothers, a chief and a medicine man, Winnedumah and Tinnemaha. They were both very wise, and one of them never did anything without the other. They taught the tribes not to war upon each other, but to stand fast as brothers, and so they brought peace into the land. At that time there were no white people heard of, and game was plenty. The young hon- ored the old, and nothing was as it is now." When the arrow-maker came to this point, the boys fidgeted with their toes, and made believe to steal the old man's arrows to distract his attention. They did not care to hear about the falling off of the Paiutes; they wished to have the tale. Then the arrow-maker would hurry on to the time when there arose a war between the Paiutes and the Shoshones. Then Winne- dumah put on his war bonnet, and Tinnemaha made medicine. Word went around among the braves that if they stood together man to man as brothers, then they should have this war. "And so they might," said the arrow-maker, "but 423 MODERN STORIES at last their hearts turned to water. The tribes came together on the top of Waban. Yes; where the boulder now stands, for that is the boundary of our lands, for no brave would fight off his own ground for fear of the other's medicine. So they fought. The eagles heard the twang of the bowstring, and swung down from White Mountain. The vultures smelled the smell of battle, and came in from Shoshone land. Their wings were dark like a cloud, and underneath the arrows flew like hail. The Paiutes were the better bowmen, and they caught the Shoshone arrows where they struck in the earth and shot them back again. Then the Sho- shones were ashamed, and about the time of the sun going down they called upon their medicine men, and one let fly a magic arrow, — for none other would touch him, — and it struck in the throat of Tinnemaha. "Now when that befell," went on the arrow-maker, "the braves forgot the word that had gone before the battle, for they turned their backs to the medicine man, all but Winnedumah, his brother, and fled this way from Waban. Then stood Winnedumah by Tinnemaha, for that was the way of those two ; whatever happened, one would not leave the other. There was none left to carry on the fight, and yet since he was so great a chief the Shoshones were afraid to take him, and the sun went down. In the dusk they saw a bulk, and they said, 'He is still standing;' but when it was morning light they saw only a great rock, so you see it to this day. As for the braves who ran away, they were changed to pine trees, but in their hearts they are cowards yet, therefore they stretch out their arms and strive toward 424 MAHALA JOE the mountain. And that," said the arrow-maker, "is how the tall stones came to be on the top of Waban. But it was not in my day nor my father's." Then the boys would look up at Winnedumah, and were half afraid, and as for the tale, they quite believed it. The arrow-maker was growing old. His knee hurt him in cold weather, and he could not make arrow points fast enough to satisfy the boys, who lost a great many in the winter season shooting at ducks in the tulares. Walter's father promised him a rifle when he was fif- teen, but that was years away. There was a rock in the canon behind Tres Pinos with a great crack in the top. When the young men rode to the hunting, they shot each an arrow at it, and if it stuck it was a promise of good luck. The boys scaled the rock by means of a grapevine ladder, and pried out the old points. This gave them an idea. "Upon Waban where the fighting was, there must be a great many arrow points," said Walter. "So there must be," said Joe. "Let us go after them," said the white boy; but the other dared not, for no Paiute would go within a bowshot of Winnedumah; nevertheless, they talked the matter over. " How near would you go ? " asked Walter. "As near as a strong man might shoot an arrow," said Joe. "If you will go so far," said Walter, "I will go the rest of the way." "It is a two days' journey," said the Paiute, but he did not make any other objection. 425 MODERN STORIES It was a warm day of spring when they set out. The cattleman was off to the river meadow, and Joe's mo- ther was out with the other mahalas gathering taboose. "If I were fifteen, and had my rifle, I would not be afraid of anything," said Walter. " But in that case we would not need to go after arrow points," said the Indian boy. They climbed all day in a bewildering waste of boul- ders and scrubby trees. They could see Winnedumah shining whitely on the ridge ahead, but when they had gone down into the gully with great labor, and up the other side, there it stood whitely just another ridge away. "It is like the false water in the desert," said Walter. " It goes farther from you, and when you get to it there is no water there." "It is magic medicine," said Indian Joe. "No good comes of going against medicine." "If you are afraid," said Walter, "why do you not say so ? You may go back if you like, and I will go on by myself." Joe would not make any answer to that. They were hot and tired, and awed by the stillness of the hills. They kept on after that, angry and apart; sometimes they lost sight of each other among the boulders and underbrush. But it seemed that it must really have been as one or the other of them had said, for when they came out on a high mesa presently, there was no Winnedumah anywhere in sight. They would have stopped then and taken counsel, but they were too angry for that ; so they walked on in silence, and the day failed rapidly, as it will do in high places. They began to 426 MAHALA JOE draw near together and to be afraid. At last the Indian boy stopped and gathered the tops of bushes together, and began to weave a shelter for the night; and when Walter saw that he made it large enough for two, he spoke to him. "Are we lost?" he said. "We are lost for to-night," said Joe, "but in the morning we will find ourselves." They ate dried venison and drank from the wicker bottle, and huddled together because of the dark and the chill. " Why do we not see the stone any more ? " asked Walter, in a whisper. "I do not know," said Joe. "I think it has gone away." " Will he come after us ? " "I do not know. I have on my elk's tooth," said Joe, and he clasped the charm that hung about his neck. They started and shivered, hearing a stone crash far away as it rolled down the mountain-side, and the wind began to move among the pines. " Joe," said Walter, " I am sorry I said that you were afraid." "It is nothing," said the Paiute. "Besides, I am afraid." "So am I," whispered the other. "Joe," he said again, after a long silence, " if he comes after us, what shall we do ? " "We will stay by each other." "Like the two brothers, whatever happens," said the white boy, "forever and ever." 427 MODERN STORIES "We are two brothers," said Joe. "Will you swear it?" "On my elk's tooth." Then they each took the elk's tooth in his hand and made a vow that whether Winnedumah came down from his rock, or whether the Shoshones found them, come what would, they would stand together. Then they were comforted, and lay down, holding each other's hands. "I hear some one walking," said Walter. "It is the wind among the pines," said Joe. A twig snapped. " What is that ? " said the one boy. "It is a fox or a coyote passing," said the other, but he knew better. They lay still, scarcely breathing, and throbbed with fear. They felt a sense of a presence approaching in the night, the whisper of a moccasin on the gravelly soil, the swish of displaced bushes springing back to place. They saw a bulk shape itself out of the dark; it came and stood over them, and they saw that it was an Indian looking larger in the gloom. He spoke to them, and whether he spoke in a strange tongue, or they were too frightened to understand, they could not tell. " Do not kill us ! " cried Walter, but the Indian boy made no sound. The man took Walter by the shoulders and lifted him up. "White," said he. "We are brothers," said Joe; "we have sworn it." "So," said the man, and it seemed as if he smiled. "Until we die," said both the boys. The Indian gave a grunt. 428 MAHALA JOE "A white man," he said, "is — white." It did not seem as if that was what he meant to say. " Come, I will take you to your people. They search for you about the foot of Waban. These three hours I have watched you and them." The boys clutched at each other in the dark. They were sure now who spoke to them, and between fear and fatigue and the cramp of cold they staggered and stumbled as they walked. The Indian stopped and considered them. "I cannot carry both," he said. "I am the older," said Joe; "I can walk." Without any more words the man picked up Walter, who trem- bled, and walked off down the slope. They went a long way through the scrub and under the tamarack pines. The man was naked to the waist, and had a quiver full of arrows on his shoulder. The buckthorn branches whipped and scraped against his skin, but he did not seem to mind. At last they came to a place where they could see a dull red spark across an open flat. "That," said the Indian, "is the fire of your people. They missed you at afternoon, and have been looking for you. From my station on the hill I saw." Then he took the boy by the shoulders. "Look you," he said, "no good comes of mixing white and brown, but now that the vow is made, see to the keeping of it." Then he stepped back from them and seemed to melt into the dark. Ahead of them the boys saw the light of the fire flare up with new fuel, and shadows, which they knew for the figures of their friends, moved between them and the flame. Swiftly as two scared rabbits they ran on toward the glow. 429 MODERN STORIES When Walter and Joe had told them the story at the campoodie, the Paiutes made a great deal of it, espe- cially the arrow-maker. "Without a doubt," he said, "it was Winnedumah who came to you, and not, as some think, a Shoshone who was spying on our land. It is a great mystery. But since you have made a vow of brothers, you should keep it after the ancient use." Then he took a knife of ob- sidian and cut their arms, and rubbed a little of the blood of each upon the other. "Now," he said, "you are one fellowship and one blood, and that is as it should be, for you were both nursed at one breast. See that you keep the vow." "We will," said the boys solemnly, and they went out into the sunlight very proud of the blood upon their bared arms, holding by each other's hands. II When Walter was fifteen his father gave him a rifle, as he had promised, and a word of advice with it. "Learn to shoot quickly and well," he said, "and never ride out from home without it. No one can tell what this trouble with the Indians may come to in the end " Walter rode straight to the campoodie. He was never happy in any of his gifts until he had showed them to Joe. There was a group of older men at the camp, quartering a deer which they had brought in. One of them, called Scar-Face, looked at Walter with a leering frown. 430 MAHALA JOE "See," he said, "they are arming the very children with guns." " My father promised it to me many years ago," said Walter. "It is my birthday gift." He could not explain why, and he grew angry at the man's accusing tone, but after it he did not like show- ing his present to the Indians. He called Joe, and they went over to a cave in the black rock where they had kept their boyish treasures and planned their plays since they were children. Joe thought the rifle a beauty, and turned it over admir- ingly in the shadow of the cave. They tried shooting at a mark, and then decided to go up Oak Creek for a shot at the gray squirrels. There they sighted a band of antelope that led them over a tongue of hills into Little Round Valley, where they found themselves at noon twelve miles from home and very hungry. They had no antelope, but four squirrels and a grouse. The two boys made a fire for cooking in a quiet place by a spring of sweet water. "You may have my rifle to use as often as you like," said Walter, "but you must not lend it to any one in the campoodie, especially to Scar-Face. My father says he is the one who is stirring up all this trouble with the whites." "The white men do not need any one to help them get into trouble," said Joe. " They can do that for them- selves." "It is the fault of the Indians," said Walter. "If they did not shoot the cattle, the white men would leave them alone." 431 MODERN STORIES "But if the white men come first to our lands with noise and trampling and scare away the game, what then will they shoot ? " asked the Paiute. Walter did not make any answer to that. He had often gone hunting with Joe and his father, and he knew what it meant to walk far, and fasting, after game made shy by the rifles of cattlemen, and at last to return empty to the campoodie where there were women and children with hungry eyes. "Is it true," he said after a while, "that Scar-Face is stirring up all the Indians in the valley?" " How should I know ? " said Joe; " I am only a boy, and have not killed big game. I am not admitted to the counsels of the old men. What does it matter to us whether of old feuds or new ? Are we not brothers sworn ? " Then, as the dinner was done, they ate each of the other's kill, for it was the custom of the Paiutes at that time that no youth should eat game of his own killing until he was fully grown. As they walked homeward the boys planned to get permission to go up on Waban for a week, after mountain sheep, before the snows began. Mr. Baker looked grave when Walter spoke to him. "My boy," he said, "I wish you would not plan long trips like this without first speaking to me. It is hardly safe in the present state of feeling among the Indians to let you go with them in this fashion. A whole week, too. But as you have already spoken of it, and it has probably been talked over in the campoodie, for me to refuse now would look as if I suspected something, and might bring about the thing I most fear." 432 MAHALA JOE "You should not be afraid for me with Joe, father, for we are brothers sworn," said Walter, and he told his father how they had mixed the blood of their arms in the arrow-maker's hut after they had come back from their first journey on Waban. "Well," said Mr. Baker, who had not heard of this before, " I know that they set great store by these super- stitious customs, but I have not much faith in the word of a Paiute when he is dealing with a white man. How- ever, you had better go on with this hunting trip. Take Hank with you, and Joe's father, and do not be gone more than five days at the outside." Hank was one of Mr. Baker's vaqueros, and very glad to get off for a few days' hunting on the blunt top of Waban. On the Monday following they left the Baker ranch for the mountain. As the two boys rode up the boulder-strewn slope it set them talking of the first time they had gone that way on their fruitless hunt for arrow points about the foot of Winnedumah, and of all that happened to them at that time. The valley lay below them full of purple mist, and away by the creek of Tres Pinos the brown, wattled huts of the campoodie like great wasps' nests stuck in the sage. Hank and Joe's father, with the pack horses, were ahead of them far up the trail; Joe and Walter let their own ponies lag, and the nose of one touched the flank of the other as they climbed slowly up the steep, and the boys turned their faces to each other, as if they had some vague warning that they would not ride so and talk familiarly again, as if the boiling anger of the tribes in the valley had brewed a sort of mist that 433 MODERN STORIES rose up and gloomed the pleasant air on the slope of Waban. "Joe," said Walter, "my father says if it came to a fight between the white settlers and the Paiutes, that you would not hold by the word we have passed." "That is the speech of a white man," said Joe. "But would you?" the other insisted. "I am a Paiute," said Joe; "I will hold by my peo- ple, also by my word; I will not fight against you." " Nor I against you, but I would not like to have my father think you had broken your word." "Have no care," said the Indian, "I will not break it." Mr. Baker looked anxiously after his son as he rode to the hunting on Waban; he looked anxiously up that trail every hour until the boy came again, and that, as it turned out, was at the end of three days. For the trouble among the Indians had come to something at last, — the wasps were all out of nest by the brown creeks, and with them a flight of stinging arrows. The trouble began at Cottonwood, and the hunting party on Waban the second day out saw a tall, pale column of smoke that rose up from the notch of the hill behind the settlement, and fanned out slowly into the pale blueness of the sky. It went on evenly, neither more nor less, thick smoke from a fire of green wood steadily tended. Before noon another rose from the mouth of Oak Creek, and a third from Tunawai. They waved and beckoned to one an- other, calling to counsel. "Signal fires," said Hank; "that means mischief. ** 434 MAHALA JOE And from that on he went with his rifle half cocked, and walked always so that he might keep Joe's father in full view. By night that same day there were seven smoke trees growing up in the long valley, and spread- ing thin, pale branches to the sky. There was no zest left in the hunt, and in the morning they owned it. Wal- ter was worried by what he knew his father's anxiety must be. Then the party began to ride down again, and always Hank made the Indian go before. Away by the foot of Oppapago rose a black volume of smoke, thick, and lighted underneath by flames. It might be the reek of a burning ranch house. The boys were excited and afraid. They talked softly and crowded their ponies together on the trail. " Joe," said Walter whisperingly, " if there is battle, you will have to go to it." "Yes," said Joe. "And you will fight; otherwise they will call you a coward, and if you run away, they will kill you." "So I suppose," said Joe. "Or they will make you wear a woman's dress like To-go-na-tee, the man who got up too late." This was a reminder from one of the arrow-maker's tales. " But you have promised not to fight." "Look you," said the Indian boy; "if a white man came to kill me, I would kill him. That is right. But I will not fight you nor your father's house. That is my vow." The white boy put out his hand, and laid it on the flank of the foremost pony. The Indian boy's fingers came behind him, and crept along the pony's back until 435 MODERN STORIES they reached the other hand. They rode forward with- out talking. Toward noon they made out horsemen riding on the trail below them. As it wound in and out around the blind gullies they saw and lost sight of them a dozen times. At last, where the fringe of the tall trees began, they came face to face. It was Mr. Baker and a party of five men; they carried rifles and had set and anx- ious looks. " What will you have ? " said Indian Joe's father, as they drew up before him under a tamarack pine. "My son," said the cattleman. "Is there war?" said the Indian. "There is war. Come, Walter." The boys were still and scared. Slowly Hank and Walter drew their horses out of the path and joined the men. Indian Joe and his father passed forward on the trail. " Do them no harm," said Joe Baker, to those that were with him. "Good-by, Joe," said Walter, half aloud. The other did not turn his head, but as he went they noticed that he had bared his right arm from the hunt- ing shirt, and/ 'an inch above the elbow showed a thin, white scar. Walter had the twin of that mark under his flannels. Mr. Baker did not mind fighting Indians ; he thought it a good thing to have their troubles settled all at once in this way, but he did not want his son mixed up in it. The first thing he did when he got home was to send him off secretly by night to the fort, and from there 436 MAHALA JOE lie passed over the mountains with other of the settlers' families under strong escort, and finally went to his mother's people in the East, and was put to school. As it turned out he never came back to Tres Pinos, he does not come into this story any more. When the first smoke rose up that showed where the fierce hate of the Paiutes had broken into flame, the Indians took their women and children away from the pleasant open slopes, and hid them in deep canons in secret places of the rocks. There they feathered arrows, and twisted bowstrings of the sinew of deer. And be- cause there were so many grave things done, and it was not the custom for boys to question their elders, Joe never heard how Walter had been sent away. He thought him still at the ranch with his father, and it is because of this mistake that there is any more story at all. You may be sure that, of those two boys, Joe's was the deeper loving, for, besides having grown up together, Walter was white, therefore thinking himself, and mak- ing the other believe it, the better of the two. But for this Walter made no difference in his behavior; had Joe to eat at his table, and would have him sleep in his bed, but Joe laughed, and lay on the floor. All this was counted a kindness and a great honor in the campoodie. Walter could find out things by looking in a book, which was sheer magic, and had taught Joe to write a little, that so he could send word by means of a piece of paper, which was cleverer than the tricks Joe had taught him, of reading the signs of antelope and elk and deer. The white boy was to the Indian a little of all the heroes and 437 MODERN STORIES bright ones of the arrow-maker's tales come alive again. Therefore he quaked in his heart when he heard the rumors that ran about the camp. The war began about Cottonwood, and ran like wild- fire that licked up all the ranches in its course. Then the whites came strongly against the Paiutes at the Stone Corral, and made an end of the best of their fighting men. Then the Indians broke out in the north, and at last it came to such a pass that the very boys must do fighting, and the women make bowstrings. The cattlemen turned into Baker's ranch as a centre, and all the northern campoodies gathered together to attack them. They had not much to hope for, only to do as much killing as possible before the winter set in with the hunger and the deep snows. By this time Joe's father was dead, and his mother had brought the boy a quiver full of arrows and a new bowstring, and sent him down to the battle. And Joe went hotly enough to join the men of the other village, nursing his bow with great care, remem- bering his father; but when he came to counsel and found where the fight must be, his heart turned again, for he remembered his friend. The braves camped by Little Round Valley, and he thought of the talk he and Walter had there; the war party went over the tongue of hills, and Joe saw Winnedumah shining whitely on Waban, and remembered his boyish errand, the mys- tery of the tall, strange warrior that came upon them in the night, their talk in the hut of the arrow-maker, and the vow that came afterward. The Indians came down a ravine toward Tres Pinos, 438 MAHALA JOE and there met a band of horses which some of their party had run in from the ranches; among them was a pinto pony which Walter had used to ride, and it came to Joe's hand when he called. Then the boy won- dered if Walter might be dead, and leaned his head against the pony's mane ; it turned its head and nickered softly at his ear. The war party stayed in the ravine until it grew dark, and Joe watched how Winnedumah swam in a mist above the hills long after the sun had gone quite down, as if in his faithfulness he would outwatch the dark; and then the boy's heart was lifted up to the great chief standing still by Tinnemaha. "I will not forget," he said. "I, too, will be faithful." Perhaps at this mo- ment he expected a miracle to help him in his vow, as it had helped Winnedumah. In the dusk the mounted Indians rode down by the Creek of Tres Pinos. When they came by the ruined hut where his father had lived, Joe's heart grew hot again, and when he passed the arrow-maker's, he re- membered his vow. Suddenly he wheeled his pony in the trail, hardly knowing what he would do. The man next to him laid an arrow across his bow and pointed it at the boy's breast. "Coward," he whispered, but an older Indian laid his hand on the man's arm. " Save your arrows," he said. Then the ponies swept forward in the charge, but Joe knew in an instant how it would be with him. He would be called false and a cow- ard, killed for it, driven from the tribe, but he would not fight against his sworn brother. He would keep his vow. 439 MODERN STORIES A sudden rain of arrows flew from the advancing Paiutes; Joe fumbled his and dropped it on the ground. He was wondering if one of the many aimed would find his brother. Bullets answered the arrow flight. He saw the braves pitch forward, and heard the scream of wounded ponies. He hoped he would be shot; he would not have minded that; it would be better than being called a coward. And then it occurred to him, if Walter and his father came out and found him when the fight was done, they would think that he had broken his word. The Paiutes began to seek cover, but Joe drove out wildly from them, and rode back in the friendly dark, and past the ruined campoodie, to the black rocks. There he crept into the cave which only he and Walter knew, and lay on his face and cried ; for though he was an Indian he was only a boy, and he had seen his first fight. He was sick with the thought of his vow. He lay in the black rocks all the night and the day, and watched the cattlemen and the soldiers ranging all that country for the stragglers of his people, and guessed that the Paiutes had made the last stand. Then in the second night he began to work back by secret paths to the mountain camp. It never occurred to him not to go. He had the courage to meet what waited for him there, but he had not the heart to go to it in the full light of day. He came in by his mother's place, and she spat upon him, for she had heard how he had carried him- self in the fight. "No son of mine," said she. He went by the women and children and heard their 440 MAHALA JOE jeers. His heart was very sick. He went apart and sat down and waited what the men would say. There were few of them left about the dying fire. They had washed off their war paint, and their bows were broken. When they spoke at last, it was with mocking and sad scorn. "We have enough of killing," said the one called Scar-Face. "Let him have a woman's dress and stay to mend the fire." So it was done in the presence of all the camp; and because he was a boy, and because he was an Indian, he said nothing of his vow, nor opened his mouth in his defense, though his heart quaked and his knees shook. He had the courage to wear the badge of being afraid all his life. They brought him a woman's dress, though they were all too sad for much laughter, and in the morning he set to bringing the wood for the fire. Afterward there was a treaty made between the Pai- utes and the settlers, and the remnant went back to the campoodie of Tres Pinos, and Joe learned how Walter had been sent out of the valley in the beginning of the war, but that did not make any difference about the woman's dress. He and Walter never met again. He continued to go about in dresses, though in time he was allowed to do a man's work, and his knowledge of Eng- lish helped to restore a friendly footing with the cattle- men. The valley filled very rapidly with settlers after that, and under the slack usage of the tribe, Mahala Joe, as he came to be known, might have thrown aside his woman's gear without offense, but he had the courage to wear it to his life's end. He kept his sentence as he kept his vow, and yet it is certain that Walter never knew. 441 THE BESIEGED CASTLE By Sir Walter Scott ITIOLLOWING with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could witness part of what was passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were making for the storm. Indeed, the situation which she thus obtained was peculiarly favorable for this purpose, because, be- ing placed on an angle of the main building, Rebecca could not only see what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a view of the outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated assault. It was an exterior fortification of no great height or strength, intended to protect the postern gate, through which Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front- de-Bceuf . The castle moat divided this species of bar- bican from the rest of the fortress, so that in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the communication with the main building, by withdrawing the temporary bridge. In the outwork was a sally port corresponding to the postern of the castle, and the whole was sur- rounded by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from the number of men placed for the defense of this post, that the besieged entertained apprehensions for 442 THE BESIEGED CASTLE its safety; and from the mustering of the assailants in a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack. These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivan- hoe, and added, " The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow." " Under what banner ? " asked Ivanhoe. " Under no ensign of war which I can observe," an- swered Rebecca. "A singular novelty," muttered the knight, "to ad- vance to storm such a castle without pennon or banner displayed ! Seest thou who they be that act as leaders ? " " A knight, clad in sable armor, is the most conspicu- ous," said the Jewess; "he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all around him." " What device does he bear on his shield ? " replied Ivanhoe. " Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the black shield!" "A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure," said Ivanhoe; " I know not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the motto ? " "Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied Rebecca; "but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell you." " Seem there no other leaders ? " exclaimed the anxious inquirer. 443 MODERN STORIES " None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," said Rebecca; "but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is also assailed. They appear even now preparing to advance. God of Zion protect us ! What a dreadful sight! Those who advance first bear huge shields, arid defenses made of plank; the others follow, bending their bows as they come on. They raise their bows! God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou hast made ! " Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of the Nor- man trumpets from the battlements, which, mingled with the deep and hollow clang of the nakers (a species of kettledrum), retorted in notes of defiance the chal- lenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties aug- mented the fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for merry England ! " and the Normans answer- ing them with cries of "En avant De Bracyl Beau- seant! Beau-seant! Front-de-Boeuf a la rescoussel" according to the war-cries of their different commanders. It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the assaiiants were met by an equally vigorous defense on the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their wood- land pastimes to the most effective use of the long- bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly together," that no point at which a defender could show the least part of his person escaped their cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy discharge, which con- tinued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstand- 444 THE BESIEGED CASTLE ing, every arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally had post, or might be sus* pected to be stationed, — by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison were slain, and several others wounded. But, confident in their armor of proof, and in the cover which their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Bceuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defense proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows, as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; and, as the assailants were ne- cessarily but indifferently protected, did consider- ably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on both sides, was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss. "And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," ex- claimed Ivanhoe, "while the game that gives me free- dom or death is played out by the hand of others ! Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath — look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, how- ever, so as not to be visible from beneath. 445 MODERN STORIES "What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight. "Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." "That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be." " I see him not," said Rebecca. " Foul craven ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest ? " "He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Rebecca. " I see him now ; he heads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back! Front-de-Bceuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of Jacob! it is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds!" She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible. "Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mis- taking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in 446 THE BESIEGED CASTLE some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, there is now less danger." Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, "Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Bceuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife. Heaven strike with the cause of the op- pressed and of the captive!" She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, "He is down! he is down!" " Who is down ? " cried Ivanhoe ; " for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen ? " "The Black Knight," answered Rebecca faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness, " But no — but no ! — the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed ! — he is on foot again, and fights as rf there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. His sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Bceuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of a wood- man — he falls — he falls ! " " Front-de-Bceuf ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. " Front-de-Bceuf ! " answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force compels the champion to pause — they drag Front-de-Bceuf within the walls." "The assailants have won the barriers, have thev not ? " said Ivanhoe. " They have — they have ! " exclaimed Rebecca, " and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulder of each other. Down go stones, 447 MODERN STORIES beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. Great God ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!" "Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts. Who yield ? — who push their way ? " "The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles — the besieged have the better." "Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; " do the false yeomen give way ? " "No!" exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right yeomanly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle — stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they were thistledown or feathers!" " By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising him- self joyfully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!" "The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes — it is splintered by his blows — they rush in — the outwork is won — Oh, God ! — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat — Oh, men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer!" " The bridge — the bridge which communicates with the castle — have they won that pass ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 448 THE BESIEGED CASTLE " No," replied Rebecca, " the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defend- ers escaped with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others — Alas ! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle." " What do they now, maiden ? " said Ivanhoe ; " look forth yet again — this is no time to faint at bloodshed." "It is over for the time," answered Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the outwork which they have mastered ; and it affords them so good a shel- ter from the f oeman's shot, that the garrison only be- stow a few bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to injure them." THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY By Edward Everett Hale I SUPPOSE that very few casual readers of the New York "Herald" of August 13th observed, in an obscure corner, among the "Deaths," the announce- ment, — "Nolan. Died, on board U. S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May, Philip Nolan." I happened to observe it, because I was stranded at the old Mission-House in Mackinaw, waiting for a Lake Superior steamer which did not choose to come, and I was devouring to the very stubble all the current literature I could get hold of, even down to the deaths and marriages in the "Herald." My memory for names and people is good, and the reader will see, as he goes on, that I had reason enough to remember Philip Nolan. There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at that announcement, if the officer of the Levant who reported it had chosen to make it thus : — " Died, May 11th, The Man without a Country." For it was as "The Man without a Country" that poor Philip Nolan had generally been known by the officers who had him in charge during some fifty years, as, indeed, by all the men who sailed under them. I dare say there is many a man who has taken wine with him 450 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY once a fortnight, in a three years' cruise, who never knew that his name was " Nolan," or whether the poor wretch had any name at all. There can now be no possible harm in telling this poor creature's story. Reason enough there has been till now, ever since Madison's administration went out in 1817, for very strict secrecy, the secrecy of honor itself, among the gentlemen of the navy who have had Nolan in successive charge. And certainly it speaks well for the esprit de corps of the profession and the personal honor of its members, that to the press this man's story has been wholly unknown, — and, I think, to the country at large also. I have reason to think, from some investigations I made in the Naval Ar- chives when I was attached to the Bureau of Construc- tion, that every official report relating to him was burned when Ross burned the public buildings at Washington. One of the Tuckers, or possibly one of the Watsons, had Nolan in charge at the end of the war; and when, on returning from his cruise, he re- ported at Washington to one of the Crowninshields, — who was in the Navy Department when he came home, — he found that the Department ignored the whole business. Whether they really knew nothing about it, or whether it was a " Non mi ricordo," deter- mined on as a piece of policy, I do not know. But this I do know, that since 1817, and possibly before, no naval officer has mentioned Nolan in his report of a cruise. But, as I say, there is no need for secrecy any longer. And now the poor creature is dead, it seems to me worth while to tell a little of his story, by way of showing young 451 MODERN STORIES Americans of to-day what it is to be a man without a country. Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the " Legion of the West," as the Western division of our army was then called. When Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans in 1805, at Fort Massac, or somewhere above on the river, he met, as the Devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young fellow, at some dinner-party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's voyage in his flat-boat, and, in short, fasci- nated him. For the next year barrack-life was very tame to poor Nolan. He occasionally availed himself of the permission the great man had given him to write to him. Long, high- worded, stilted letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. But never a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver. The other boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he sacrificed in this unrequited affection for a politician the time which they devoted to Monongahela, sledge, and high-low-jack. Bourbon, euchre, and poker were still unknown. But one day Nolan had his revenge. This time Burr came down the river, not as an attorney seeking a place for his of- fice, but as a disguised conqueror. He had defeated I know not how many district attorneys; he had dined at I know not how many public dinners; he had been heralded in I know not how many Weekly Arguses, and it was rumored that he had an army behind him and an empire before him. It was a great day — his arrival — to poor Nolan. Burr had not been at the fort an hour before he sent for him. That evening he asked 452 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY Nolan to take him out in his skiff, to show him a cane- brake or a cottonwood tree, as he said, — really to se- duce him ; and by the time the sail was over Nolan was enlisted body and soul. From that time, though he did not yet know it, he lived as a man without a country. What Burr meant to do I know no more than you, dear reader. It is none of our business just now. Only, when the grand catastrophe came, and Jefferson and the House of Virginia of that day undertook to break on the wheel all the possible Clarences of the then House of York, by the great treason-trial at Richmond, some of the lesser fry in that distant Mississippi Valley, which was farther from us than Puget Sound is to-day, in- troduced the like novelty on their provincial stage, and, to while away the monotony of the summer at Fort Adams, got up, for spectacles, a string of courts-martial on the officers there. One and another of the colonels and majors were tried, and, to fill out the list, little No- lan, against whom, Heaven knows, there was evidence enough, — that he was sick of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed any order to march any-whither with any one who would follow him, had the order only been signed, " By com- mand of His Exc. A. Burr." The courts dragged on. The big flies escaped, — rightly, for all I know. Nolan was proved guilty enough, as I say; yet you and I would never have heard of him, reader, but that, when the president of the court asked him at the close whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out, in a fit of frenzy, — 453 MODERN STORIES " D n the United States ! I wish I may never hear «)f the United States again ! " I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Colonel Morgan, who was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served through the Revo- lution, and their lives, not to say their necks had been risked for the very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his madness. He, on his part, had grown up in the West of those days, in the midst of "Spanish plot," " Orleans plot," and all the rest. He had been educated on a plantation where the finest company was a Span- ish officer or a French merchant from Orleans. His education, such as it was, had been perfected in com- mercial expeditions to Vera Cruz, and I think he told me his father once hired an Englishman to be a pri- vate tutor for a winter on the plantation. He had spent half his youth with an older brother, hunting horses in Texas; and, in a word, to him "United States" was scarcely a reality. Yet he had been fed by "United States " for all the years since he had been in the army. He had sworn on his faith as a Christian to be true to "United States." It was "United States" which gave him the uniform he wore, and the sword by his side. Nay, my poor Nolan, it was only because "United States " had picked you out first as one of her own con- fidential men of honor, that " A. Burr " cared for you a straw more than for the flat-boat men who sailed his ark for him. I do not excuse Nolan; I only explain to the reader why he damned his country, and wished he might never hear her name again. He never did hear her name but once again. From 454 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY that moment, September 23, 1807, till the day he died. May 11, 1863, he never heard her name again. For that half -century and more he was a man without a country. Old Morgan, as I said, was terribly shocked. If Nolan had compared George Washington to Benedict Arnold, or had cried, " God save King George," Mor- gan would not have felt worse. He called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like a sheet, to say, — " Prisoner, hear the sentence of the court ! The court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again." Nolan laughed. But nobody else laughed. Old Mor- gan was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. Even Nolan lost his swag- ger in a moment. Then Morgan added, — "Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there." The Marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken out of court. " Mr. Marshal," continued old Morgan, " see that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal, make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and request him to order that no one shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board ship. You will receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this evening. The court is ad- journed without day." I have always supposed that Colonel Morgan himself took the proceedings of the court to Washington city, 455 MODERN STORIES and explained them to Mr. Jefferson. Certain it is that the President approved them, — certain, that is, if I may believe the men who say they have seen his signa- ture. Before the Nautilus got round from New Orleans to the Northern Atlantic coast with the prisoner on board, the sentence had been approved, and he was a man without a country. The plan then adopted was substantially the same which was necessarily followed ever after. Perhaps it was suggested by the necessity of sending him by wa- ter from Fort Adams and Orleans. The Secretary of the Navy — it must have been the first Crowninshield, though he is a man I do not remember — was requested to put Nolan on board a government vessel bound on a long cruise, and to direct that he should be only so far confined there as to make it certain that he never saw or heard of the country. We had few long cruises then, and the navy was very much out of favor; and as al- most all of this story is traditional, as I have explained, I do not know certainly what his first cruise was. But the commander to whom he was intrusted, — perhaps it was Tingey or Shaw, though I think it was one of the younger men, — we are all old enough now, — regulated the etiquette and the precautions of the affair, and according to his scheme they were carried out, I suppose, till Nolan died. When I was second officer of the Intrepid — some thirty years after — I saw the original paper of in- structions. I have been sorry ever since that I did not copy the whole of it. It ran, however, much in this way: — 456 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY Washington [with the date, which must have been late in 1807]. Sir, — You will receive from Lieutenant Neale the person of Philip Nolan, late a Lieutenant in the United States Army. This person on his trial by court-martial expressed with an oath the wish that he might ' never hear of the United States again.' The Court sentenced him to have his wish fulfilled. For the present, the execution of the order is in- trusted by the President to this department. You will take the prisoner on board your ship, and keep him there with such precautions as shall prevent his escape. You will provide him with such quarters, rations, and clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank, if he were a passenger on your vessel on the business of his government. The gentlemen on board will make any arrange- ments agreeable to themselves regarding his society. He is to be exposed to no indignity of any kind, nor is he ever unnecessarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner. But under no circumstance is he ever to hear of his country or to see any information regarding it; and you will specially caution all the officers under your command to take care, that in the various indulgences which may be granted, this rule, in which his punish- ment is involved, shall not be broken. It is the intention of the government that he shall never again see the country which he has disowned. 457 MODERN STORIES Before the end of your cruise you will receive orders which will give effect to this intention. Respectfully yours, W. Southard, for the Secretary of the Navy. If I had only preserved the whole of this paper, there would be no break in the beginning of my sketch of this story. For Captain Shaw, if it was he, handed it to his successor in the charge, and he to his, and I suppose the commander of the Levant has it to-day as his au- thority for keeping this man in this mild custody. The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met "the man without a country" was, I think, trans- mitted from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war, — cut off more than half the talk men like to have at sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest of us, except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one system. He was not permitted to talk with the men, unless an officer was by. With officers he had unre- strained intercourse, as far as they and he chose. But he grew shy, though he had favorites : I was one. Then the captain always asked him to dinner on Monday. Every mess in succession took up the invitation in its turn. According to the size of the ship, you had him at your mess more or less often at dinner. His breakfast he ate in his own stateroom, — he always had a state- room, — which was where a sentinel or somebody on 458 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY the watch could see the door. And whatever else he ate or drank, he ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite " Plain Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his punishment did them good. They called him "Plain Buttons," because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army-uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned. I remember, soon after I joined the navy, I was on shore with some of the older officers from our ship and from the Brandywine, which we had met at Alexandria- We had leave to make a party and go up to Cairo and the Pyramids. As we jogged along (you went on don- keys then), some of the gentlemen (we boys called them "Dons," but the phrase was long since changed) fell to talking about Nolan, and some one told the system which was adopted from the first about his books and other reading. As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time, at the best, hung heavy; and everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America and made no allusion to it. These were common enough in the old days, when people in the other hemisphere talked of the United States as little as we do of Paraguay. He had almost all the foreign papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any ad- 459 MODERN STORIES vertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to America. This was a little cruel sometimes, when the back of what was cut out might be as innocent as Hesiod. Right in the midst of one of Napoleon's battles, or one of Canning's speeches, poor Nolan would find a great hole, because on the back of the page of that paper there had been an advertisement of a packet for New York, or a scrap from the President's message. I say this was the first time I ever heard of this plan, which after- wards I had enough, and more than enough to do with. I remember it because poor Phillips, who was of the party, as soon as the allusion to reading was made, told a story of something which happened at the Cape of Good Hope on Nolan's first voyage; and it is the only thing I ever knew of that voyage. They had touched at the Cape, and had done the civil thing with the English Admiral and the fleet, and then, leaving for a long cruise up the Indian Ocean, Phillips had bor- rowed a lot of English books from an officer, which in those days, as indeed in these, was quite a windfall. Among them, as the Devil would order, was the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which they had all of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of anything national in that, though Phillips swore old Shaw had cut out the " Tempest " from Shakespeare before he let Nolan have it, because he said "the Bermudas ought to be ours, and, by Jove, should be one day." So Nolan was permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. Peo- 460 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY pie do not do such things so often now ; but when I was young we got rid of a great deal of time so. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and Border chivalry, and was ten thou- sand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and drank something, and then began, without a thought of what was com- ing* — "Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said" — It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first time; but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically, — "This is my own, my native land !" Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on, — "Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ? — If such there breathe, go, mark him well." By this time the men were all beside themselves, wish- ing there was any way to make him turn over two pages ; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he gagged a little, colored crimson, and staggered on, — "For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, — 461 MODERN STORIES Despite these titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self" — and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his stateroom. "And, by Jove," said Phillips, "we did not see him for two months again. And I had to make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return his Walter Scott to him." That story shows about the time when Nolan's brag- gadocio must have broken down. At first, they said, he took a very high tone, considered his imprisonment a mere farce, affected to enjoy the voyage, and all that ; but Phillips said that after he came out of his stateroom he never was the same man again. He never read aloud again, unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or some- thing else he was sure of. But it was not that merely. He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a companion again. He was always shy afterwards, when I knew him, — very seldom spoke unless he was spoken to, except to a very few friends. He lighted up occasionally, — I remember late in his life hearing him fairly eloquent on something which had been suggested to him by one of Flechier's sermons, — but generally he had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded man. When Captain Shaw was coming home, — if, as I say, it was Shaw, — rather to the surprise of everybody they made one of the Windward Islands, and lay off and on for nearly a week. The boys said the officers were sick of salt-junk, and meant to have turtle-soup before they came home. But after several days the 462 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY Warren came to the same rendezvous; they exchanged signals ; she sent to Phillips and these homeward-bound men, letters and papers, and told them she was outward- bound, perhaps to the Mediterranean, and took poor Nolan and his traps on the boat back to try his second cruise. He looked very blank when he was told to get ready to join her. He had known enough of the signs of the sky to know that till that moment he was going " home." But this was a distinct evidence of something he had not thought of, perhaps, — that there was no going home for him, even to a prison. And this was the first of some twenty such transfers, which brought him sooner or later into half our best vessels, but which kept him all his life at least some hundred miles from the country he had hoped he might never hear of again. It may have been on that second cruise — it was once when he was up the Mediterranean — that Mrs. Graff, the celebrated Southern beauty of those days, danced with him. They had been lying a long time in the Bay of Naples, and the officers were very intimate in the Eng- lish fleet, and there had been great festivities, and our men thought they must give a great ball on board the ship. How they ever did it on board the Warren I am sure I do not know. Perhaps it was not the Warren, or perhaps ladies did not take up so much room as they do now. They wanted to use Nolan's stateroom for something, and they hated to do it without asking him to the ball; so the captain said they might ask him, if they would be responsible that he did not talk with the wrong people, "who would give him intelligence." So 463 MODERN STORIES the dance went on, the finest party that had ever been known, I dare say; for I never heard of a man-of-war ball that was not. For ladies they had the family of the American consul, one or two travelers who had adven- tured so far, and a nice bevy of English girls and ma- trons, perhaps Lady Hamilton herself. Well, different officers relieved each other in standing and talking with Nolan in a friendly way, so as to be sure that nobody else spoke to him. The dancing went on with spirit, and after a while even the fellows who took this honorary guard of Nolan ceased to fear any contretemps. Only when some English lady — Lady Hamilton, as I said, perhaps — called for a set of "American dances," an odd thing happened. Every- body then danced contra-dances. The black band, nothing loath, conferred as to what " American dances " were, and started off with "Virginia Reel," which they followed with "Money Musk," which in its turn in those days should have been followed by "The Old Thirteen." But just as Dick, the leader, tapped for his fiddles to begin, and bent forward, about to say in true negro state, "'The Old Thirteen,' gentlemen and ladies ! " as he had said " ' Virginny Reel,' if you please ! " and " * Money Musk,' if you please ! " the captain's boy tapped him on the shoulder, whispered to him, and he did not announce the name of the dance; he merely bowed, began on the air, and they all fell to, — the officers teaching the English girls the figure, but not telling them why it had no name. But that is not the story I started to tell. As the dancing went on, Nolan and our fellows all got at 464 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY ease, as I said, — so much so, that it seemed quite natural for him to bow to that splendid Mrs. Graff, and say, — "I hope you have not forgotten me, Miss Rutledge. Shall I have the honor of dancing?" He did it so quickly that Fellows, who was by him, could not hinder him. She laughed, and said, — "I am not Miss Rutledge any longer, Mr. Nolan; but I will dance all the same," just nodded to Fellows, as if to say he must leave Mr. Nolan to her, and led him off to the place where the dance was forming. Nolan thought he had got his chance. He had known her at Philadelphia, and at other places had met her, and this was a Godsend. You could not talk in contra- dances, as you do in cotillons, or even in the pauses of waltzing; but there were chances for tongues and sounds, as well as for eyes and blushes. He began with her travels, and Europe, and Vesuvius, and the French; and then, when they had worked down, and had that long talking-time at the bottom of the set, he said boldly, — a little pale, she said, as she told me the story, years after, — "And what do you hear from home, Mrs. Graff?" And that splendid creature looked through him. Jove! how she must have looked through him! " Home ! ! Mr. Nolan ! ! ! I thought you were the man who never wanted to hear of home again ! " And she walked directly up the deck to her husband, and left poor Nolan alone, as he always was. He did not dance again. I cannot give any history of him in order; nobody 465 MODERN STORIES can now; and, indeed, I am not trying to. These are the traditions, which I sort out, as I believe them, from the myths which have been told about this man for forty years. The lies that have been told about him are legion. The fellows used to say he was the " Iron Mask ; " and poor George Pons went to his grave in the belief that this was the author of " Junius," who was being punished for his celebrated libel on Thomas Jefferson. Pons was not very strong in the historical line. A happier story than either of these I have told, is of the war. That came along soon after. I have heard this affair told in three or four ways, — and indeed it may have happened more than once. But which ship it was on I cannot tell. How- ever, in one, at least, of the great frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized, it happened that a round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took right down the officer of the gun himself, and almost every man of the gun's crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage, but that is not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked themselves up, and as they and the surgeon's people were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his shirt-sleeves, with the rammer in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with authority, — who should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should stay with him, — perfectly cheery, and with that way which makes men feel sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished loading the gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. 466 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY And there he stayed, captain of that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy struck, — sit- ting on the carriage while the gun was cooling, though he was exposed all the time, — showing them easier ways to handle heavy shot, — making the raw hands laugh at their own blunders, — and when the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said, — " I am showing them how we do this in the artillery, sir." And this is the part of the story where all the legends agree; that the Commodore said, — "I see you do, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir." And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman's sword, in the midst of the state and cere- mony of the quarter-deck, he said, — "Where is Mr. Nolan ? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here." And when Nolan came the captain said, — "Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in the dispatches." And then the old man took off his own sword of cere- mony, and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that infernal day at Fort Adams. But always after- wards, on occasions of ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the Commodore's. 467 MODERN STORIES The captain did mention him in the dispatches. It was always said he asked that he might be pardoned. He wrote a special letter to the Secretary of War. But nothing ever came of it. As I said, that was about the time when they began to ignore the whole transaction at Washington, and when Nolan's imprisonment began to carry itself on because there was nobody to stop it without any new orders from home. I have heard it said that he was with Porter when he took possession of the Nukahiwa Islands. Not this Por- ter, you know, but old Porter, his father, Essex Porter, — that is, the old Essex Porter, not this Essex. As an artillery officer, who had seen service in the West, Nolan knew more about fortifications, embrasures, ravelins, stockades, and all that, than any of them did; and he worked with a right good-will in fixing that battery all right. I have always thought it was a pity Porter did not leave him in command there with Gamble. That would have settled all the question about his punish- ment. We should have kept the islands, and at this mo- ment we should have one station in the Pacific Ocean. Our French friends, too, when they wanted this little watering-place, would have found it was preoccupied But Madison and the Virginians, of course, flung all that away. All that was near fifty years ago. If Nolan was thirty then, he must have been near eighty when he died. He looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to me to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in every sea, and yet almost never on land. 468 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY He must have known, in a formal way, more officers in our service than any man living knows. He told me once, with a grave smile, that no man in the world lived so methodical a life as he. "You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know how busy he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to read all the time, more than to do anything else all the time; but that he read just five hours a day. "Then," he said, " I keep up my note-books, writing in them at such and such hours from what I have been reading; and I include in these my scrap-books." These were very curious in- deed. He had six or eight, of different subjects. There was one of History, one of Natural Science, one which he called " Odds and Ends." But they were not merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied on, and carved scraps of bone and wood, which he had taught the men to cut for him, and they were beautifully illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings there, and some of the most pathetic, that I have ever seen in my life. I wonder who will have Nolan's scrap- books. Well, he said his reading and his notes were his pro- fession, and that they took five hours and two hours respectively of each day. "Then," said he, "every man should have a diversion as well as a profession. My Natural History is my diversion." That took two hours a day more. The men used to bring him birds and fish, but on a long cruise he had to satisfy himself with cen- tipedes and cockroaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist I ever met who knew anything 469 MODERN STORIES about the habits of the house-fly and the mosquito. All those people can tell you whether they are Lepidoptera or Steptopotera ; but as for telling how you can get rid of them, or how they get away from you when you strike them, — why, Linnaeus knew as little of that as John Foy the idiot did. These nine hours made Nolan's reg- ular daily " occupation." The rest of the time he talked or walked. Till he grew very old, he went aloft a great deal. He always kept up his exercise ; and I never heard that he was ill. If any other man was ill, he was the kindest nurse in the world ; and he knew more than half the surgeons do. Then if anybody was sick or died, or if the captain wanted him to on any other occasion, he was always ready to read prayers. I have said that he read beautifully. My own acquaintance with Philip Nolan began six or eight years after the war, on my first voyage after I was appointed a midshipman. It was in the first days after our Slave-Trade treaty, while the Reigning House, which was still the House of Virginia, had still a sort of sentimentalism about the suppression of the horrors of the Middle Passage, and something was sometimes done that way. We were in the South Atlantic on that business. From the time I joined, I believe I thought Nolan was a sort of lay chaplain, — a chaplain with a blue coat. I never asked about him. Everything in the ship was strange to me. I knew it was green to ask questions, and I suppose I thought there was a " Plain Buttons" on every ship. We had him to dine in our mess once a week, and the caution was given that on that day nothing was to be said about home. But if 470 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY they had told us not to say anything about the planet Mars or the Book of Deuteronomy, I should not have asked why; there were a great many things which seemed to me to have as little reason. I first came to understand anything about " the man without a coun- try " one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was sent to take charge of her, and, after a few minutes, he sent back to his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could speak Portuguese. We were all looking over the rail when the message came, and we all wished we could interpret, when the captain asked who spoke Portuguese. But none of the officers did; and just as the captain was sending forward to ask if any of the people could, Nolan stepped out and said he should be glad to inter- pret, if the captain wished, as he understood the lan- guage. The captain thanked him, fitted out another boat with him, and in this boat it was my luck to go. When we got there, it was such a scene as you seldom see, and never want to. Nastiness beyond account, and chaos run loose in the midst of the nastiness. There were not a great many of the negroes; but by way of making what there were understand that they were free, Vaughan had had their hand-cuffs and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and, for convenience' sake was putting them upon the rascals of the schooner's crew. The ne- groes were, most of them, out of the hold, and swarm- ing all round the dirty deck, with a central throng sur- rounding Vaughan and addressing him in every dialect and patois of a dialect, from the Zulu click up to the Parisian of Beledeljereed. 471 MODERN STORIES As we came on deck, Vaughan looked down from a hogshead, on which he had mounted in desperation, and said, — "For God's love, is there anybody who can make these wretches understand something ? The men gave them rum, and that did not quiet them. I knocked that big fellow down twice, and that did not soothe him. And then I talked Choctaw to all of them together; and I'll be hanged if they understood that as well as they understood the English." Nolan said he could speak Portuguese, and one or two fine-looking Kroomen were dragged out, who, as it had been found already, had worked for the Portu- guese on the coast at Fernando Po. "Tell them they are free," said Vaughan; "and tell them that these rascals are to be hanged as soon as we can get rope enough." Nolan " put that into Spanish," — that is, he ex- plained it in such Portuguese as the Kroomen could understand, and they in turn to such of the negroes as could understand them. Then there was such a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's feet, and a general rush made to the hogs- head by way of spontaneous worship of Vaughan, as the deus ex machina of the occasion. "Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I will take them all to Cape Palmas." This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was prac- tically as far from the homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally separated from home there. And their inter- 472 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY preters, as we could understand, instantly said, "Ah, non Palmas," and began to propose infinite other expe- dients in most voluble language. Vaughan was rather disappointed at this result of his liberality, and asked Nolan eagerly what they said. The drops stood on poor Nolan's white forehead, as he hushed the men down, and said, — "He says, 'Not Palmas.' He says, 'Take us home, take us to our own country, take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own women.' He says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that these devils caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says," choked out Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has been locked up in an infernal barracoon." Vaughan always said he grew gray himself while Nolan struggled through this interpretation. I, who did not understand anything of the passion involved in it, saw that the very elements were melting with fervent heat, and that something was to pay somewhere. Even the negroes themselves stopped howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughan 's almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he could get words he said, — "Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the Mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail the 473 MODERN STORIES schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home!" And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs. But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the stern-sheets and the men gave way, he said to me, " Youngster, let that show you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home, and your country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven. Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you have to travel from it; and rush back to it, when you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy," and the words rattled in his throat, "and for that flag," and he pointed to the ship, " never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag. Re- member, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers, and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own 474 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother, if those devils there had got hold of her to-day!" I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion ; but I blundered out, that I would, by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a whisper, say, " Oh, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!" I think it was this half -confidence of his, which I never abused, for I never told this story till now, which afterward made us great friends. He was very kind to me. Often he sat up, or even got up, at night, to walk the deck with me, when it was my watch. He explained to me a great deal of my mathematics, and I owe to him my taste for mathematics. He lent me books, and helped me about my reading. He never alluded so di- rectly to his story again; but from one and another officer I have learned, in thirty years, what I am telling. When we parted from him in St. Thomas Harbor, at the end of our cruise, I was more sorry than I can tell. I was very glad to meet him again in 1830; and later in life, when I thought I had some influence in Wash- ington, I moved heaven and earth to have him dis- charged. But it was like getting a ghost out of prison. They pretended there was no such man, and never was such a man. They will say so at the Department now! Perhaps they do not know. It will not be the first thing in the service of which the Department appears to know nothing ! There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of 475 MODERN STORIES our vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in the Mediterranean. But this I believe to be a lie; or, rather, it is a myth, ben trovato, involving a tre- mendous blowing-up with which he sunk Burr, — asking him how he liked to be "without a country." But it is clear, from Burr's life, that nothing of the sort could have happened; and I mention this only as an illustration of the stories which get a-going where there is the least mystery at bottom. So poor Philip Nolan had his wish fulfilled. I know but one fate more dreadful: it is the fate reserved for those men who shall have one day to exile themselves from their country because they have attempted her ruin, and shall have at the same time to see the pros- perity and honor to which she rises when she has rid herself of them and their iniquities. The wish of poor Nolan, as we all learned to call him, not because his punishment was too great, but because his repentance was so clear, was precisely the wish of every Bragg and Beauregard who broke a soldier's oath two years ago, and of every Maury and Barron who broke a sailor's. I do not know how often they have repented. I do know that they have done all that in them lay that they might have no country, — that all the honors, associations, memories, and hopes which belong to "country" might be broken up into little shreds and distributed to the winds. I know, too, that their pun- ishment, as they vegetate through what is left of life to them in wretched Boulognes and Leicester Squares, where they are destined to upbraid each other till they die, will have all the agony of Nolan's, with the added 476 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY pang that every one who sees them will see them to despise and to execrate them. They will have their wish, like him. For him, poor fellow, he repented of his folly, and then, like a man, submitted to the fate he had asked for. He never intentionally added to the difficulty or delicacy of the charge of those who had him in hold. Accidents would happen; but they never happened from his fault. Lieutenant Truxton told me that, when Texas was annexed, there was a careful discussion among the officers whether they should get hold of Nolan's handsome set of maps and cut Texas out of it, — from the map of the world and the map of Mexico. The United States had been cut out when the atlas was bought for him. But it was voted rightly enough, that to do this would be virtually to reveal to him what had happened, or, as Harry Cole said, to make him think old Burr had succeeded. So it was from no fault of Nolan's that a great botch happened at my own table, when, for a short time, I was in command of the George Washington corvette, on the South American station. We were lying in the La Plata, and some of the officers, who had been on shore, and had just joined again, were entertaining us with accounts of their misadventures in riding the half-wild horses of Buenos Ayres. Nolan was at table, and was in an unusually bright and talka- tive mood. Some story of a tumble reminded him of an adventure of his own, when he was catching wild horses in Texas with his brother Stephen, at a time when he must have been quite a boy. He told the story with a good deal of spirit, — so much so, that the silence 477 MODERN STORIES which often follows a good story hung over the table for an instant, to be broken by Nolan himself. For he asked, perfectly unconsciously, — " Pray, what has become of Texas ? After the Mex- icans got their independence, I thought that province of Texas would come forward very fast. It is really one of the finest regions on earth; it is the Italy of this continent. But I have not seen or heard a word of Texas for near twenty years." There were two Texan officers at the table. The rea- son he had never heard of Texas was that Texas and her affairs had been painfully cut out of his newspapers since Austin began his settlements; so that, while he read of Honduras and Tamaulipas, and till quite lately, of California, — this virgin province, in which his brother had traveled so far, and, I believe, had died, had ceased to be to him. Waters and Williams, the two Texas men, looked grimly at each other, and tried not to laugh. Edward Morris had his attention attracted by the third link in the chain of the captain's chande- lier. Watrous was seized with a convulsion of sneezing. Nolan himself saw that something was to pay, he did not know what. And I, as master of the feast, had to say, — "Texas is out of the map, Mr. Nolan. Have you seen Captain Back's curious account of Sir Thomas Roe's Welcome ? " After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. I wrote to him at least twice a year, for in that voyage we be- came even confidentially intimate; but he never wrote to me. The other men tell me that in those fifteen years 478 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY he aged very fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was still the same gentle, uncomplaining, silent sufferer that he ever was, bearing as best he could his self' appointed punishment, — rather less social, perhaps, with new men whom he did not know, but more anxious, apparently, than ever to serve and befriend and teach the boys, some of whom fairly seemed to worship him. And now, it seems, the dear old fellow is dead. He has found a home at last, and a country. Since writing this, and while considering whether or no I would print it, as a warning to the young Nolans and Vallandighams and Tatnals of to-day of what it is to throw away a country, I have received from Dan- forth, who is on board the Levant, a letter which gives an account of Nolan's last hours. It removes all my doubts about telling this story. To understand the first words of the letter, the non- professional reader should remember that after 1817, the position of every officer who had Nolan in charge was one of the greatest delicacy. The government had failed to renew the order of 1807 regarding him. What was a man to do ? Should he let him go ? What, then, if he were called to account by the Department for violating the order of 1807 ? Should he keep him ? What, then, if Nolan should be liberated some day, and should bring an action for false imprisonment or kidnapping against every man who had had him in charge ? I urged and pressed this upon Southard, and I have reason to think that other officers did the same thing. But the Secretary always said, as they so often 479 MODERN STORIES do at Washington, that there were no special orders to give, and that we must act on our own judgment. That means, "If you succeed, you will be sustained; if you fail, you will be disavowed." Well, as Danforth says, all that is over now, though I do not know but I expose myself to a criminal prosecution on the evidence of the very revelation I am making. Here is the letter: — Levant, 2° 2' S. @ 131° W. Dear Fred, — I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with dear old Nolan. I have been with him on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can un- derstand wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the dear old fellow. I could see that he was not strong, but I had no idea the end was so near. The doctor has been watching him very carefully, and yesterday morn- ing came to me and told me that Nolan was not so well, and had not left his stateroom, — a thing I never re- member before. He had let the doctor come and see him as he lay there, — the first time the doctor had been in the stateroom, — and he said he should like to see me. Oh, dear ! do you remember the mysteries we boys used to invent about his room, in the old Intrepid days ? Well, I went in, and there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Wash- ington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with light- nings blazing from his beak and his foot just clasping 480 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY the whole globe, which his wings overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance, and said, with a sad smile, " Here, you see, I have a country ! " And then he pointed to the foot of his bed, where I had not seen before a great map of the United States, as he had drawn it from memory, and which he had there to look upon as he lay. Quaint, queer old names were on it, in large letters: "Indiana Territory," "Mississippi Territory," and "Louisiana Territory," as I suppose our fathers learned such things: but the old fellow had patched in Texas, too; he had carried his western boundary all the way to the Pacific, but on that shore he had defined nothing. " Oh, Danforth," he said, "I know I am dying. I can- not get home. Surely you will tell me something now ? — Stop ! stop ! Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that there is not in America, — God bless her ! — a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or hopes for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars in it now, Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not know what their names are. There has never been one taken away: I thank God for that. I know by that, that there has never been any successful Burr. Oh, Danforth, Danforth," he sighed out, "how like a wretched night's dream a boy's idea of personal fame or of separate sovereignty seems, when one looks back on it after such a life as mine ! But tell me, — tell me something, — tell me everything, Dan- forth, before I die!" Ingham, I swear to you that I felt like a monster 481 MODERN STORIES that I had not told him everything before. Danger or no danger, delicacy or no delicacy, who was I, that I should have been acting the tyrant all this time over this dear, sainted old man, who had years ago expiated, in his whole manhood's life, the madness of a boy's treason? "Mr. Nolan," said I, "I will tell you every- thing you ask about. Only, where shall I begin ? " Oh the blessed smile that crept over his white face I and he pressed my hand and said, "God bless you!" "Tell me their names," he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. "The last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. But I have guessed Michigan and Indiana and Mississippi, — that was where Fort Adams is, — they make twenty. But where are your other fourteen ? You have not cut up any of the old ones, I hope?" Well, that was not a bad text, and I told him the names in as good order as I could, and he bade me take down his beautiful map and draw them in as I best could with my pencil. He was wild with delight about Texas, told me how his brother died there; he had marked a gold cross where he supposed his brother's grave was ; and he had guessed at Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw California and Oregon ; — that, he said, he had suspected partly, because he had never been permitted to land on that shore, though the ships were there so much. "And the men," said he, laughing, "brought off a good deal besides furs." Then he went back — heavens, how far ! — to ask about the Chesa- peake, and what was done to Barron for surrendering her to the Leopard, and whether Burr ever tried again, 482 s I- HE BADE ME TAKE DOWN HIS BEAUTIFUL MAP AND DRAW THEM IN AS I BEST COULD WITH MY PENCIL. HE WAS WILD WITH DE- LIGHT ABOCT TEXAS, TOLD ME HOW HIS BROTHER DIED THERE; HE HAD MARKED A GOLD CROSS WHERE HE SUPPOSED HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE WAS; AND HE HAD GUESSED AT TEXAS. THEN HE WAS DELIGHTED AS HE SAW CALIFORNIA AND OREGON. 3 E&£ &E1$E 8 &m THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY — and he ground his teeth with the only passion he showed. But in a moment that was over, and he said, "God forgive me, for I am sure I forgive him." Then he asked about the old war, — told me the true story of his serving the gun the day we took the Java, — asked about dear old David Porter, as he called him. Then he settled down more quietly, and very happily, to hear me tell in an hour the history of fifty years. How I wished it had been somebody who knew something! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the English war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat beginning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson; told him all I could think about the Missis- sippi, and New Orleans, and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And do you think, he asked who was in command of the "Legion of the West." I told him it was a very gallant officer named Grant, and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his headquar- ters at Vicksburg. Then, "Where was Vicksburg?" I worked that out on the map ; it was about a hundred miles, more or less, above his old Fort Adams; and I thought Fort Adams must be a ruin now. "It must be at old Vick's plantation," said he; "well, that is a change ! " I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And I do not now know what I told him — of emigration, and the means of it, — of steamboats, and railroads, and telegraphs, — of inventions, and books, and literature, — of the colleges, and West Point, and the Naval School, — but with the queerest interrupt 483 MODERN STORIES tions that ever you heard. You see it was Robinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions of fifty- six years! I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was president now; and when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lincoln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. I said, No, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I could not tell him of what family; he had worked up from the ranks. "Good for him!" cried Nolan; "I am glad of that. As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our dan- ger was in keeping up those regular successions in the first families." Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. I told him of meeting the Oregon Con- gressman, Harding; I told him about the Smithsonian, and the Exploring Expedition; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the pediment, and Craw- ford's Liberty, and Greenough's Washington: Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about this infernal Rebellion! And he drank it in, and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me to bring the Presbyterian " Book of Public Prayer," which lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right place, — and so it did. There was his double red mark down the page; and I knelt 484 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY down and read, and he repeated with me, "For our- selves and our country, O gracious God, we thank Thee,, that notwithstanding our manifold transgressions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy mar- velous kindness," — and so to the end of that thanks- giving. Then he turned to the end of the same book,, and I read the words more familiar to me, — "Most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the President of the United States, and all others in authority," — and the rest of the Episcopal Collect. "Danforth," said he, "I have repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now fifty-five years." And then he said he would go to sleep. He bent me down over him and kissed me ; and he said, "Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am gone." And I went away. But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy and I wanted him to be alone. But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's badge of the Order of Cincinnati. We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper, at the place where he had marked the text, — "They desire a country, even a heavenly: where- fore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath prepared for them a city." On this slip of paper he had written, — "Bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my 485 MODERN STORIES memory at Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it, — In Memory of PHILIP NOLAN, Lieutenant in the Army op the United States. He loved his country as no other man has loved her ; but no man deserved less at her hands." INDEXES INDEX OF AUTHORS Abbott, Jacob. The Captain of the Guard rebels, 6, 175. Abbott, John S. C. Bears, Indians, and Kit Carson, 8,3. The Return of Napoleon Bona- parte from Elba, and his Re- ception at Grenoble, 275. Adams, Andy. How the Cowboys crossed the Big Boggy, 7, 228. Adams, John Quincy. The Wants of Man, 9, 458. Addison, Joseph. The Spacious Firmament on High, 9, 389. JEsop. The Goose that laid Golden Eggs, 1, 495. The Boys and the Frogs, 495. The Shepherd-Boy and the Wolf, 495. The Lion and the Mouse, 496. The Sun and the Wind, 496. Belling the Cat, 497. The Fox and the Grapes, 497. The Frog and the Ox, 498. The Dog in the Manger, 498. The Cat, the Monkey, and the Chestnuts, 498. The Country Maid and her Milk- pail, 499. The Fox in the Well, 500. The Ass in the Lion's Skin, 500. The Tortoise and the Hare, 500. The Dog and his Shadow, 501. The Lark and her Young Ones, 501. The Fox and the Stork, 502. Aikin, John, and Mks. Anna Letitia Barbauld. Things by their Right Names, 6,24. Eyes and no Eyes ; or, The Art of Seeing, 46. The Colonists, 75. The Little Philosopher, 110. Tit for Tat, 443. Alcott, Louisa M. Jo's First Story, 10, 359. Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. Our New Neighbors at Ponka- pog, 7, 484. The Ballad of Baby Bell, 9, 36. Guilielmus Rex, 504. The Snow Fort on Slatter's Hill. 10, 75. Alexander, Mrs. Cecil Fran- ces. The Burial of Moses, 9, 479. Allingham, William. Wayside Flowers, 9, 355. The Fairies, 469. Almeida, W. Barrington d'» See Boden, G. H. Andersen, Hans Christian. The Ugly Duckling, 1, 233. The Constant Tin Soldier, 246. The Darning-needle, 252. The Angel, 257. The Fir-tree, 261. Arnold, George. The Jolly Old Pedagogue, 9, 505. 489 INDEX OF AUTHORS Arnold, Matthew. The Forsaken Merman, 9, 179. Geist's Grave, 357. Audubon, John James. Audubon's Hostess, 8, 60. Austin, Mary. Mahala Joe, 10, 419. Axon, William E. A. The Mobbing of Garrison, 8, 89. Baker, Samuel White. A Faithful Dog, 7, 77. The Elephants that struck, 192. Ball, Sir Robert Stawell. Are there People in the Moon ? 7, 315. Bamford, Mary E. My Froghopper Friend, 7, 126. Barbauld, Mrs. Anna Letitia. See Aikin, John. Barbour, Ralph H. The Harwell- Yates Game, 7, 168. Bartram, William. A Naturalist among the Alliga- tors, 8, 23. Bates, Arlo. Harebells, 9, 339. Beecher, Henry Ward. How Beecher conquered his Audience, 8, 95. Blake, William. The Child and the Piper, 9, 8. Little Lamb, 339. The Tiger, 353. Boden, G. H., and W. Barring- ton d' Almeeda. Ladronius, the Prince of Thieves, 3,3. Arion and the Dolphin, 18. Bolles, Frank. A Night alone on Chocorua, 7, 407. Bostock, Frank C. How to train a Lion, 7, 333. Bourne, Benjamin Franklin. My Escape from the Patagoni- ans, 7, 471. Bourne, Vincent. The Cricket, 6, 371. Brereton, John. A Visit from the Indians to Bartholomew Gosnold, 7, 401. Briffault, F. T. The Escape of Louis Napoleon from the Fortress of Ham, 8, 291. Brooks, E. S. Brian of Munster, the Boy Chieftain, 8, 165. Charles of Sweden, the Boy Conqueror, 200. Brooks, Phillips. O Little Town of Bethlehem, 9, 312. Brown, Abbie Farwell. The Giant Builder, 2, 253. The Quest of the Hammer, 278. The Dwarf's Gifts, 303. Balder and the Mistletoe, 316. S. P. C. T. T., 9, 16. A Family Reunion, 20. Market Day, 266. Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. A Child's Thought of God, 9, 46. A Musical Instrument, 177. Browning, Robert. The Pied Piper of Hamelin, 9, 57. nerve" Riel, 150. Incident of the French Camp, 166. How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 175. Song from " Pippa Passes," 282. 490 INDEX OF AUTHORS Boot and Saddle, 297. Grow Old along with me, 439. Bryant, William Cullen. Song of Marion's Men, 9, 295. Robert of Lincoln, 329. The Planting of the Apple-tree, 365. To the Fringed Gentian, 368. To a Waterfowl, 369. The Conqueror's Grave, 430. Thanatopsis, 443. Bulfinch, Thomas. Owain and the Lady of the Fountain, 4, 115. Pwyll and the Game of Badger in the Bag, 140. Manawyddan and the Seven En- chanted Cantrevs, 148. Bunyan, John. Christian passes through the Wicket Gate, 5, 3. A Visit to the House of the In- terpreter, 7. At the House Beautiful, 18. Christian's Fight with Apollyon, 32. The Castle of Giant Despair, 38. The Delectable Mountains, 49. The Pilgrims wander from the Way, 54. The Celestial City, 59. Burns, Robert. Flow gently, Sweet Afton, 9, 287. Auld Lang Syne, 289. Bruce to his Men at Bannock- burn, 290. To a Mouse, 370. Honest Poverty, 418. The Selkirk Grace, 453. Burroughs, John. About the Fox, 7, 213. Our Rural Divinity, 246. Butler, Isabel. The Battle at Roncevals, 4, 252. Byron, George Gordon, Lord. Waterloo, 9, 484. Campbell, Thomas. Lochiel's Warning, 6, 389. Lord Ullin's Daughter, 9, 167. Ye Mariners of England, 300. Battle of the Baltic, 451. Hohenlinden, 476. Carey, Rosa Nouchette. The Heroism of the Fame Is- lands, 8, 221. Florence Nightingale, 467. Carney, Julia A. F. (ascribed to). Little Things, 6, 340. " Carroll, Lewis." Alice and the Two Queens, 10, 208. Cary, Phosbe. The Leak in the Dike, 9, 30. Nearer Home, 292. Suppose! 420. Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de. Don Quixote determines to be- come a Knight, 5, 207. The Fight with the Windmills, 215. The Innkeeper's BiU, 222. The Battle of the Sheep, 227. The Conquest of Mambrino's Helmet, 235. Don Quixote's Battle with the Giants, 241. Don Quixote meets the Lions, 245. The Ride on the Wooden Horse, 256. The Three Thousand Three Hundred and Odd Lashes, 265. The Return and Death of Don Quixote, 272. 491 INDEX OF AUTHORS €hodsko, Alex. The Prince with the Golden Hand, 2, 401. The Dwarf with the Long- Beard, 418. The Sun ; or, The Three Golden Hairs of the Old Man Vsevede, 430. Church, Alfred J. Romulus, Founder of Rome, 3, 31. How Horatius held the Bridge, 43. How Cincinnatus saved Rome, 46. The Story of Virginia, 52. The Sacrifice of Marcus Curtius, 63. The Quarrel between Agamem- non and Achilles, 188. The Death of Patroelus and the Battle of the River, 219. An Adventure with the Cyclops, 277. The Flight of ^Eneas from the Ruins of Troy, 395. -^Eneas and Queen Dido, 408. iEneas finally conquers the Latins, 482. How Ralph the Charcoal-burn- er entertained King Charles, and afterwards went to Court, 4, 229. How Fierabras defied King Charles, 239. The Childhood of Rustem, 421. The Seven Adventures of Rus- tem, 425. Rustem and Sohrab, 450. ClBBER, COLLEY. The Blind Boy, 6, 356. Ooleridge, Samuel Taylor. Rime of the Ancient Mariner, 9, 197. Cook, Eliza. Old Story Books, 6, 398. Cooke, Rose Terry. Miss Beulah's Bonnet, 10, 383. Cooper, James Fenimore. A Race for Life, 10, 265. Cowper, William. Familiarity Dangerous, 6, 353. The Cricket (translated by Cou>~ per), 371. Report of an Adjudged Case, 418. The Diverting History of John Gilpin, 470. On the Loss of the Royal George, 9, 473. Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 482. Cox, George W. and E. H. Jones. Havelok, 4, 211. Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock. The Unknown Country, 9, 433. Croker, T. Crofton. Daniel O'Rourke, 1, 449. Cunningham, Allan. Sea Song, 9, 280. D' Almeida, W. Barrington. See Boden, G. H. Dana, Richard Henry. A Visit to Robinson Crusoe's Island, 7, 116. Dasent, George Webbe. Boots and his Brothers, 1, 273. The Husband who was to mind the House, 280. Buttercup, 283. Why the Sea is Salt, 288. Not a Pin to choose between them, 295. The Lad who went to the North Wind, 303. Boots who ate a Match with the Troll, 308. 492 INDEX OF AUTHORS Gudbrand on the Hillside, 312. Capturing Guillemots and Puf- fins in Iceland, 7, 305. Day, Thomas. Tommy Merton meets Harry Sandford, 6, 149. Tommy decides to study Arith- metic, 160. Defoe, Daniel. Robinson Crusoe is shipwrecked, 5, 73. Unloading a Wreck, 82. Robinson Crusoe's First Home on the Island, 89. Robinson Crusoe builds a Boat, 97. The Mysterious Footprint, 103. The Coming of Friday, 119. Homeward Bound, 130. De la Ramee, Louise (Ouida). A Dog of Flanders, 10, 136. Dickens, Charles. The Ivy Green, 9, 354. The Cratchits' Christmas Din- ner, 10, 85. Dickinson, Emily. A Day, 9, 514. Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge. t Alice and the Two Queens, 10, 208. Dorsey, George A. The Boy and the Mud Pony, 1, 466. Du Chaillu, Paul B. An African Pet, 7, 417. Du Couret, Louis. The Girl and the Panther, 7, 424. In a Quicksand, 430. A Traveler's Ordeal, 439. Edgeworth, Maria. The Purple Jar, 6, 3. The Wager, 12. Frank divides the Cake, 26. Frank learns a New Way to eat, 32. The Birthday Present, 130. The Barring Out, or Party Spirit, 201. Simple Susan, 253. Edwards, Charles L. B' Loggerhead and B' Conch, 1, 463. Emerson, Ralph Waldo. The Rhodora, 9, 333. The Humble-Bee, 348. The Snow-Storm, 372. Forbearance, 388. Concord Hymn, 396. Boston Hymn, 404. Letters, 415. The Mountain and the Squirrel, 454. Everett, David. The Juvenile Orator, 6, 362. Ewing, Juliana Horatia. Jackanapes, 10, 96. Ferguson, Samuel. The Forging of the Anchor, 9, 490. Fd3ld, Eugene. Little Boy Blue, 9, 40. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, 279. Japanese Lullaby, 291. Fields, James T. The Captain's Daughter, 9, 39. The Alarmed Skipper, 91. The Turtle and Flamingo, 273. Don, 350. Fitzgerald, Percy. Alexandre Dumas founds a Newspaper, 8, 341. Fortier, Alcee. Compair Lapin's Godchild, 1, 461. 493 INDEX OF AUTHORS Compair Lapin and Mr. Turkey, 464. ^RERE, M. Singh Rajah and the Cunning Little Jackals, 1, 375. The Brahmin, the Tiger, and the Six Judges, 378. Tit for Tat, 383. Muchie Lai, 2, 445. Panch-Phul Ranee, 456. Chandra's Vengeance, 487. Frith, Henry. A Runaway Locomotive, 7, 87. No Steam, 325. Gibb, John. Beowulf, 4, 3. GODDARD, JULIA. Thor's Adventures among the Jotuns, 2, 263. How the Wolf Fenris was chained, 293. The Wonderful Quern Stones, 352. The Story of Frithiof, 4, 193. Goldsmith, Olivee. The Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes (ascribed to Goldsmith), 6, 81. Moses goes to the Fair, 171. Three Children sliding on the Ice (ascribed to him), 351. Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, 393. An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, 394. Gould, Hannah Flagg. The Frost, 6, 369. The Envious Lobster, 425. Gray, Thomas. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, 9, 434. Griefis, William Elliot. The Ashes that made Trees bloom, 2, 363. Grimm, Wilhelm and Jakob. Little Snow-white, 1, 163. Thumbling, 175. The Six Swans, 181. Hansel and Grethel, 188. Faithful John, 199. The Frog-King, 210. The Hare and the Hedgehog, 215. Hale, Edward Everett. The Man without a Country, 10, 450. Hale, Lucretia P. The Peterkins are obliged to Move, 10, 373. Hale, Sarah Josepha. Mary's Lamb, 6, 340. Hall, Basil. Midshipmen's Pranks, 7, 197. Hanson, Charles Henry. iEneas's Adventure with the Harpies, 3, 402. ^Eneas in the Land of the Cy- clops, 405. The Funeral Games of Anchises, 433. iEneas's Visit to the Lower World, 444. I ^Eneas's First Great Battle with the Latins, 465. Harris, Joel Chandler. The Story of the Pigs, 1, 474. How Brother Fox failed to get his Grapes, 480. Why Brother Bear has no Tail, 487. Harte, Francis Bret. John Burns of Gettysburg, 9, 93. The Queen of the Pirate Isle, 10, 217. Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Pygmies, 2, 3. 494 INDEX OF AUTHORS The Gorgon's Head, 29. The Golden Fleece, 60. The Paradise of Children, 107. The Dragon's Teeth, 128. The Minotaur, 166. The Chimaera, 202. The Miraculous Pitcher, 3, 67. The Golden Touch, 92. The Pomegranate Seeds, 114. Circe's Palace, 288. The Great Stone Face, 10, 271. Hazlitt, W. C. Robin Hood and the Sorrowful Knight, 4, 162. Headley, J. T. Winfield Scott at the Battle of Queenstown, 8, 66. Headley, P. C. A Story of Midshipman Farra- gut, 8, 72. Hemans, Felicia Dorothea. Casabianca, 6, 346. The Better Land, 377. The Graves of a Household, 387. The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England, 9, 394. Herbert, George. The Elixir, 9, 415. Herrick, Robert. A Thanksgiving to God, for his House, 9, 427. Higginson, Thomas Went- worth. The Things I miss, 9, 513. Waiting for the Bugle, 515. Hill, Charles T. The Risks of a Fireman's Life, 7, 274. Holbrook, Florence. Why the Evergreen Trees never lose their Leaves, 1, 514. Why there is a Man in the Moon, 517. Why the Cat always falls upon her Feet, 519. Holland, Josiah Gilbert. Babyhood, 9, 6. A Christmas Carol, 311. Holmes, Oliver Wendell. My Hunt after " the Captain," 8, 100. The Deacon's Masterpiece ; or, The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay, 9, 119. Old Ironsides, 402. The Chambered Nautilus, 446. Contentment, 461. Dorothy Q., 466. The Last Leaf, 495. Hopkinson, Francis. The Battle of the Kegs, 6, 466. Hoppin, Augustus. At Auton House, 10, 36. House, Erwin M. Imprisonment of Adoniram Jud- son in Burmah, 8, 240. Howe, Julia Ward. Battle Hymn of the Republic, 9, 400. Howitt, Mary. The Hare's Lament, 6, 354. The Use of Flowers, 365. The Garden, 395. The Spider and the Fly, 411. Mabel on Midsummer Day, 445. Howitt, William. The Wind in a Frolic, 6, 385. Hughes, Thomas. Hare and Hounds at Rugby, 10, 57. Hugo, Victor. A Battle with a Cannon, 7, 291. Hunt, Leigh. Abou Ben Adhem, 9, 156. 495 INDEX OF AUTHORS Ingelow, Jean. The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, 9, 113. Irving, Washington. Rip Van Winkle, 10, 186. Jackson, Helen Hunt. My Tenants, 9, 503. Jacobs, Joseph. Whittington and his Cat, 1, 55. The Three Sillies, 67. Jack the Giant-Killer, 72. The Son of Seven Queens, 385. How the Raja's Son won the Princess Labam, 396. Jack and his Master, 413. The Story-teller at Fault, 423. Jack and his Comrades, 436. Jewett, Sarah Orne. Farmer Finch, 10, 299. Jones, E. H. See Cox, George W. Jonson, Ben. The Noble Nature, 9, 439. Kane, Elisha Kent. Dr. Kane to the Rescue, 8, 264. Kaufman, Rosalie. Alexander the Great, 8, 346. Lycurgus, 373. Keary, A. and E. Iduna's Apples, 2, 328. Kennedy, Patrick. The Haughty Princess, 1, 445. Key, Francis Scott. The Star-spangled Banner, 9, 399. Kieffer, Harry M. The War Eagle and Other Sol- diers' Pets, 7, 22. Punishments in Camp, 96. Kingsley, Charles. A Child Ballad, 9, 22. The Sands of Dee, 288. The Three Fishers, 305. Dartside, 344. A Farewell, 418. Kipling, Rudyard. Wee Willie Winkie, 10, 242. Lamb, Charles. The Housekeeper, 9, 340. Lamb, Charles and Mary. The Comedy of Errors, 5, 391. The Merchant of Venice, 410. The Tempest, 428. Langhorne, John. To a Redbreast, 6, 341. Larcom, Lucy. Swinging on a Birch-tree, 9. 342. Lear, Edward. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, 9, 265. The Jumblies, 267. The Quangle Wangle's Hat, 270. "Little B." The Fox and the Crow, 6, 363. Livingstone, David. The Lion and the Missionary, 8, 236. Longfellow, Henry Wads- worth. The Children's Hour, 9, 3. Hiawatha's Childhood, 9. The Wreck of the Hesperus, 26. The Phantom Ship, 82. Paul Revere's Ride, 85. Stay, stay at Home, my Heart, and rest, 282. Christmas Bells, 310. The Three Kings, 315. O Ship of State ! 408. Psalm of Life, 413. The Builders, 416. The Bridge, 421. Santa Teresa's Book-Mark, 447. The Village Blacksmith, 456. The Old Clock on the Stairs, 510. 496 INDEX OF AUTHORS Lowell, James Russell. The First Snow-Fall, 9, 46. The Shepherd of King Admetus, 169. The Vision of Sir Lannfal, 184. Spring 1 in New England, 334. To the Dandelion, 337. The Fountain, 346. Little Kindnesses, 413. The Heritage, 425. The Courtin', 497. Lowell, Robert Traill Spence. The Relief of Lucknow, 9, 103. Luke, Jemima. I think when I read that Sweet Story of Old, 9, 304. McAndrew, Barbara Miller. Through the Flood on Foot, 9, 161. Macaulay, Thomas Babington. Horatius, 9, 124. Macdonald, George. Baby, 9, 5. The Earl o' Quarterdeck, 246. Little White Lily, 341. MacDowell, M. W. Siegfried, 4, 299. McMaster, Gut Humphreys. Carmen Bellicosum, 9, 397. Madison, Dolly. Burning of Washington, 8, 75. Mahony, Francis. The Shandon Bells, 9, 508. Malory, Thomas. Arthur is chosen King, 4, 31. The Quest of the Holy Grail, 47. Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, 60. Launcelot and Elaine, 70. The Death of King Arthur, 98. Marvin, F. S., R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell. Ulysses lands on the shore of Ithaca, 3, 333. Ulysses at the House of the Swineherd, 339. His Reception at the Palace, 351. The Slaying of the Suitors, 374. Merriam, Florence A. About the Crow, 7, 159. Merrick, James. The Chameleon, 6, 416. Miller, Hugh. The Champion Stonecutter, 7, 72. A Boy Geologist and the Doocot Cave, 8, 308. Miller, Joaquin. Twin Babies, 7, 3. Miller, Olive Thorne. The Bird Room, 7, 37. The Busy Blue Jay, 40. The Baby Robin, 46. Polly's Pranks, 52. Polly's Outing, 58. The Comical Crow Baby, 162. Milton, John. Hymn on the Morning of Christ's Nativity, 9, 318. On his Blindness, 429. Mitford, A. B. The Adventures of Little Peach- ling, 1, 321. The Accomplished and Lucky Teakettle, 324. The Grateful Foxes, 326. The Elves and the Envious Neighbor, 2, 370. Moffett, Cleveland. The Pilot of the Lachine Rapids, 7, 107. The Steeple-Climber, 347. Moore, Clement C. A Visit from St. Nicholas, 6, 343. Moore, Thomas. The Minstrel Boy, 6, 388. Canadian Boat-Song, 9, 293. 497 INDEX OF AUTHORS Those Evening- Bells, 294. Sound the Loud Timbrel, 302. Moke, Hannah. Parley the Porter, 6, 114. Morris, Clara. When Clara Morris first met Garfield, 7, 268. Noel, Maurice. When the Bees swarmed, 7, 10. Nordhoff, Charles. Our First Whale, 7, 146. O'Keeffe, Adelaide. Birds, Beasts, and Fishes, 6, 358. The Butterfly, 368. " Ouida." A Dog- of Flanders, 10, 136. Ozaki, Yei Theodora. The Tongue-cut Sparrow, 1, 334. Palmer, George Herbert ,trans- lator. The Sirens — Scylla and Cha- rybdis, 3, 326. The Trial of the Bow, 359. Penelope recognizes Ulysses, 381. Parkman, Francis. Champlain's Search for the In- dies, 7, 457. The White Champion of the Algonquins, 8, 47. Parton, James. Israel Putnam, 8, 33. Payn, J. An Unwilling Rebel, 8, 182. Payne, John Howard. Home, Sweet Home, 9, 281. Peabody, Josephine Preston. Arachne, 2, 231. Pygmalion and Galatea, 234. Atalanta's Race, 237. Cupid and Psyche, 240. The Trial of Psyche, 246. Orpheus and Eurydice, 3, 157. Icarus and Daedalus, 161. Phaethon, 164. Niobe, 169. Pyramus and Thisbe, 172. The Apple of Discord, 179. The Wooden Horse and the Fall of Troy, 269. A Journey, 9, 356. The House and the Road, 455. Perry, Nora. Boston Boys, 9, 23. Perry, Walter C. The Fight between Paris and Menelaus, 3, 198. The Duel between Hector and Ajax, 207. Vulcan makes Armor for Achilles, 238. The Slaying of Hector, 245. The Funeral Games in Honor of Patroclus, 258. Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. " Did you speak? " 9, 14. At the Party, 17. Pliny the Younger. The Eruption of Mount Vesu- vius, 8, 393. Plutarch. A King's Horse, 7, 211. Poe, Edgar Allan. The Bells, 9, 486. A Descent into the Maelstrom, 10, 335. Preston, Margaret Junkin. The Milan Bird-Cages, 9, 97. Prout, Father. The Shandon Bells, 9, 508. Raju, P. V. Ramaswami. The Camel and the Pig, 1, 365. 498 INDEX OF AUTHORS The Man and his Piece of Cloth, 367. The Lion, the Fox, and the Story-teller, 368. The Sea, the Fox, and the Wolf, 370. The Tiger, the Fox, and the Hunters, 371. The Birds and the Lime, 373. The Raven and the Cattle, 374. Raspe, Rodolph Eric. The Baron's First Wanderings, 5, 373. The Baron's Journey to St. Pe- tersburg, 378. The Baron's Wonderful Horse, 381. The Baron's Cold Day, 385. Repplier, Agnes. The Archbishop's Visit, 10, 411. Binder, Frank. Nedzumi, 2, 372. The Palace of the Ocean-Bed, 375. Autumn and Spring, 379. The Vision of Tsunu, 383. Rai-taro, the Son of the Thun- der-God, 387. The Star-Lovers, 391. The Child of the Forest, 394. Roberts, Charles G. D. Domine, cui sunt Pleiades Curae, 9, 69. Rogers, Samuel. Ginevra, 6, 463. Ruskin, John. My Dog Wisie, 7, 34. The King of the Golden River, 10, 3. Sangster, Margaret Eliza- beth. Dinna Chide, 9, 424. Saxe, John Godfrey. How Cyrus laid the Cable, 9,89. Scott, Sir Walter. Lochinvar, 9, 145. Song of Clan-Alpine, 298. Fatherland, 409. HelveUyn, 477. The Archery Contest, 10, 257. The Besieged Castle, 442. Scudder, Horace Elisha. Little Red Riding-Hood, 1, 3. The Three Bears, 6. Little One Eye, Little Two Eyes, and Little Three Eyes, 9. Henny-Penny, 19. Jack and the Bean-Stalk, 23. The Golden Bird, 34. Hop-o'-my-Thumb, 44. Puss in Boots, 86. Tom Thumb, 93. Cinderella; or, The Glass Slip- per, 101. Hans in Luck, 110. The Sleeping Beauty, 116. Blue Beard, 123. The White Cat, 130. Beauty and the Beast, 149. The Golden Egg and the Cock of Gold, 507. The Prince's Visit, 10, 68. Shakespeare, William. Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind, 9,299. Fairy Song, 302. Hark ! Hark ! the Lark, 303. Jog on, jog on, 303. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. To a Skylark, 9, 381. The Cloud, 385. Sherman, Frank Dempster. Bees, 9, 14. Ghost Fairies, 43. Daisies, 44. 499 INDEX OF AUTHORS SlGOURNEY, LYDIA HUNTLEY. The Ladybug and the Ant, 6, 361. Sill, Edward Rowland. Opportunity, 9, 440. Skeat, Walter W. Who killed the Otter's Babies, 1, 354. The Elephant has a Bet with the Tiger, 357. The Tune that Makes the Tiger Drowsy, 363. The King of the Tigers is Sick, 364. Stories from the Life of Julius Caesar, 8, 403. Smith, Samuel Francis. My Country, 't is of Thee, 9, 393. Smith, Seba. Revolutionary Tea, 6, 436. The Story of Sam Patch, 438. Southey, Robert. Rodrigo and the Leper, 4, 349. The Knighting of Rodrigo, 351. The Cid is driven into Banish- ment, 356. The Cid comes to the Aid of his King, 308. How the Cid made a Coward into a Brave Man, 372. How the Cid ruled Valencia, 377. The Marriage of the Cid's Two Daughters to the Infantes of Carrion, 386. The Trial by Swords, 398. The Cid's Last Victory, 405. The Burial of the Cid, 410. The Old Man's Comforts, and how he gained them, 6, 368. The Battle of Blenheim, 372. Bishop Hatto and his Mouse Tower, 9, 100. The Inchcape Rock, 147. The Cataract of Lodore, 375. Spencer, William Robert. Llewellyn and his Dog, 6, 455. Sproat, Nancy Dennis. The Blackberry Girl, 6, 422. Stanley, Henry Morton. A Quiet Walk with Stanley in Africa, 8, 260. Stedman, Edmund Clarence. What the Winds bring, 9, 17. The Discoverer, 55. Stevenson, Robert Louis. The Dumb Soldier, 9, 12. The Land of Story Books, 41, Bed in Summer, 43. The Lamplighter, 68. Happy Thought, 329. Stowell, F. M. See Marvin, F. S. Swift, Jonathan. Gulliver is shipwrecked on the Coast of Lilliput, 5, 141. Gulliver seizes the Enemy's Fleet, 154. A Lilliputian Ode, 162. The Brobdingnagian Giants, 164. Adventures in Brobdingnag, 179. Gulliver's Escape, 189. Tappan, Eva March. The Country where the Mice eat Iron, 1, 349. The Rogue and the Simpleton, 351. Robin Hood and the Butcher, 4, 177. The Men who explored the Mis- sissippi, 8, 14. The Pathfinders, Lewis and Clark, 40. Two Scenes from the Life of George Washington, 456. Tate, Nahum. While Shepherds watched their Flocks by Night, 9, 309. 500 INDEX OF AUTHORS Taylor, Ann. The Chatterbox, 6, 352. Meddlesome Matty, 429. The Little Fish that would not do as it was bid, 434. The Pin, 454. Taylor, Jane. The Discontented Pendulum, 1, 504. The Sore Tongue, 6, 39. Busy Idleness, 191. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, 339. The Snail, 360. Contented John, 367. The Violet, 378. The Pond, 435. Tennents, J. Emerson. Training Elephants in Ceylon, 7, 381. Tennyson, Alfred. Lady Clare, 9, 171. Break, break, break, 285. Sweet and Low, 286. The Bugle-Song, 286. Crossing the Bar, 306. Christmas, 314. Flower in the Crannied Wall, 346. The Brook, 373. The Charge of the Light Bri- gade, 471. Thackeray, William Make- peace. Little Billee, 9, 275. Thaxter, Celia. The Sandpiper, 9, 380. Thomas, Edith M. Autumn among the Birds,9, 362. Thompson. Maurice. The Kingfisher, 9, 361. Thoreau, Henry David. A Night at the Highland Light, 7, 393. Torrey, Bradford. A Woodland Intimate, 7, 131. Tower, David B., and Benjamin F. Tweed. A Grammar Rhyme, 6, 357. Trowbridge, John Townsend. Story of the "Barefoot Boy," 9, 52. Darius Green and his Flying- Machine, 73. Farmer John, 463. The Charcoalman, 501. Turner, Elizabeth. Politeness, 6, 351. Tweed, Benjamin F. See Tower, David B. Waring, Anna L^titia. " My Times are in Thy Hand," 9, 441. Watts, Isaac. The Busy Bee, 6, 345. Against Quarreling and Fight- ing, 353. A Cradle Song, 379. The Slnggard, 392. Westall, William. Escape of an Exile from Siberia, 7, 491. White, Henry Kirke. The Star of Bethlehem, 6, 381. Whiteing, Richard. The Escape of Charles II (1651), 8, 187. Baron Trenck, 423. Whitman, Walt. O Captain ! My Captain ! 9, 403, Whittier. John Greenleaf. The Barefoot Boy, 9, 48. King Volmer and Elsie, 106* In School-Days, 157. Telling the Bees, 159. The Corn-Song, 283. Firelight, 454. 501 INDEX OF AUTHORS Wiggin, Kate Douglas. Two Little Runaways, 10, 44. Wolfe, Charles. The Burial of Sir John Moore, 9, 475. Woodworth, Francis C. The Snowbird's Song, 6, 342. Wordsworth, William. The Pet Lamb, 6, 348. We are Seven, 375. Lucy Gray, or Solitude, 413. Goody Blake and Harry Gill, 458. In March, 9, 332. Daffodils, 333. To a Child, 440. Wyss, Johann Rudolf. The Swiss Family Robinson's First Day on the Desert Is- land, 6, 56. Yonge, Charlotte M. The Children of Blentarn Ghyll, 7, 64. The Boy that " stood on the Burning Deck," 450. The Petitioners for Pardon, 8, 317. INDEX OF TITLES AND OF THE FIRST LINES OF POEMS {The titles of general divisions are set in small capitals.) "A chieftain to the Highlands bound," 9, 167. "A law there is of ancient fame," 6,443. " A lively young turtle lived down by the banks," 9, 273. " A Lobster from the water came,' ' 6, 425. " A noun 's the name of anything," 6, 357. "A wet sheet and a flowing sea," 9, 280. Abou Ben Adhem, 9, 156. " Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase ! ") 9, 156. About the Crow, 7, 159. About the Fox, 7, 213. Accomplished and Lucky Tea- kettle, The, 1, 324. "'Across the narrow beach we flit," 9, 380. Adventure with the Cyclops, An, 3, 277. Adventures and Achieve- ments, 8, 1. Adventures in Brobdingnag, 5, 179. Adventures of Little Peachling, The, 1, 321. ^Eneas, The Wanderings of the Trojan, 3, 393. iEneas and Queen Dido, 3, 408. iEneas finally conquers the Latins, 3, 482. ./Eneas in the Land of the Cyclops, 3, 405. ^Eneas's Adventure with the Harpies, 3, 402. iEneas's First Great Battle with the Latins, 3, 465. iEneas's Visit to the Lower World, 3,444. Africa, A Quiet Walk with Stan- ley in, 8, 260. African Pet, An, 7, 417. Against Quarreling and Fighting, 6, 353. Agamemnon and Achilles, The Quarrel between, 3, 188. " Ah ! dinna chide the mither," 9, 424. Aladdin, The Story of, 5, 287. Alarmed Skipper, The, 9, 91. Alexander the Great, 8, 346. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, 5, 315. Alice and the Two Queens, 10, 208. "All are architects of Fate," 9, 416. Alligators, A Naturalist among the, 8, 23. American Stories, 1, 459. Among the Brobdingnagian Giants, 5, 164. "An ancient story 111 tell you anon," 9, 226. 503 INDEX OF TITLES " An easy thing, Power divine," 9, 513. Ancient Mariner, Rime of the, 9, 197. Angel, The, 1, 257. " Announced by all the trumpets of the sky," 9, 372. Apple of Discord, The, 3, 179. Arabian Nights, The, 5, 285. Arachne, 2, 231. Archbishop's Visit, The, 10,411. Archery Contest, The, 10, 257. Are there People in the Moon ? 7, 315. Arion and the Dolphin, 3, 18. "Arise, my maiden, Mabel," 6, 445. Arthur, King, The Death of, 4, 98. Arthur is chosen King and gets his Sword Excalibur, 4, 31. "As in her ancient mistress' lap," 6, 353. "As Joseph was a- walking," 6, 383. Ashes that made Trees bloom, The, 2, 363. Ass in the Lion's Skin, The, 1, 500. At Auton House, 10, 36. " At evening when I go to bed," 9, 44. " At evening, when the lamp is lit," 9, 41. At the House Beautiful, 5, 18. At the Party, 9, 17. Atalanta's Race, 2, 237. Audubon's Hostess, 8, 60. Auld Lang Syne, 9, 289. Auton House, At, 10, 36. Autumn among the Birds, 9, 362. Autumn and Spring, 2, 379. " Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! " 9, 402 B' Loggerhead and B' Conch, 1' 463. Baby, 9, 5. Baby BeU, The Ballad of, 9, 36. Baby Robin, The, 7, 46. Babyhood, 9, 6. Balder and the Mistletoe, 2, 316. Ballad of Baby BeU, The, 9, 36. Barefoot Boy, The, 9, 48. Baron Munchausen, TheTrav els of, 5, 371. Baron Trenck, 8, 423. Barring Out, The, or Party Spirit, 6, 201. Battle at Roncevals, The, 4, 252. Battle Hymn of the Republic, 9, 400. Battle of Blenheim, The, 6, 372. Battle of the Baltic, 9, 451. Battle of the Kegs, The, 6, 466. Battle of the Sheep, The, 5, 227. Battle with a Cannon, A, 7, 291. Bears, Indians, and Kit Carson, 8,3. Beauty and the Beast, 1, 149. Bed in Summer, 9, 43. Beecher conquered his Audience, How, 8, 95. Bees, 9, 14. " Bees don't care about the snow," 9,14. Belling the Cat, 1, 497. Bells, The, 9, 486. Beowulf, 4, 3. Besieged Castle, The, 10, 442. Better Land, The, 6, 377. " Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose," 6,418 " Between the dark and the day- light," 9, 3. Bird Room, The, 7, 37. Birds and the Lime, The, 1, 373. Birds, Beasts, and Fishes, 6, 358. Birthday Present, The, 6, 130. 504 INDEX OF TITLES Bishop Hatto and his Mouse Tower, 9, 100. Blackberry Girl, The, 6, 422. " Blessings on thee, little man," 9, 48. Blind Boy, The, 6, 356. Blindness, On his, 9, 429. Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind, 9, 299. Blue Beard, 1, 123. "Blue sky and bluer sea," 9, 339. Boot and Saddle, 9, 297. " Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! "9, 297. Boots and his Brothers, 1, 273. Boots who ate a Match with the Troll, 1, 308. Boston Boys, 9, 23. Boston Hymn, 9, 404. Boy and the Mud Pony, The, 1, 466. Boy Geologist and the Doocot Cave, A, 8, 308. Boy that " stood on the Burning- Deck," The, 7, 450. Boys and the Frogs, The, 1, 495. Brahmin, the Tiger, and the Six Judges, The, 1, 378. Break, break, break, 9, 285. "Breathes there the man, with soul so dead," 9, 409. Brian of Munster, the Boy Chief- tain, 8, 165. Bridge, The, 9, 421. British Isles, Heroes of the, 4,1. Brobdingnag, Adventures in, 5, 179. 3robdingnagian Giants, Among the, 5, 164. Brook, The, 9, 373. Brother Bear has no Tail, Why, 1, 487. Brother Fox failed to get his Grapes, How, 1, 480. Bruce to his Men at Bannockburn, 9, 290. Bugle-Song, The, 9, 286. Builders, The, 9, 416. Burial of Moses, The, 9, 479. Burial of Sir John Moore, The, 9, 475. Burial of the Cid, The, 4, 410. "Burly, dozing humble-bee," 9, 348. Busy Bee, The, 6, 345. Busy Blue Jay, The, 7, 40. Busy Idleness, 6, 191. Buttercup, 1, 283. Butterfly, The, 6, 368. " By Nebo's lonely mountain," 9, 479. " By the rude bridge that arched the flood," 9, 396. ' ' By the shores of Gitchee Gu- mee," 9, 9. Caesar, Julius, Stories from the Life of, 8, 403. Camel and the Pig, The, 1, 365. Canadian Boat-Song, 9, 293. Captain of the Guard Rebels, The, 6, 175. Captain's Daughter, The, 9, 39. Capturing Guillemots and Puffins in Iceland, 7, 305. Carmen Bellicosum, 9, 397. Carson, Kit, Bears, Indians, and, 8,3. Casabianca, 6, 346. Castle of Giant Despair, The, 5, 38. Cat, the Monkey, and the Chest- nuts, The, 1, 498. Cataract of Lodore, The, 9, 375. Celestial City, The, 5, 59. Celtic Stories, 1, 411. 505 INDEX OF TITLES Chambered Nautilus, The, 9, 446. Chameleon, The, 6, 416. Champion Stonecutter, The, 7, 72. Champlain's Search for the Indies, 7, 457. Chandra's Vengeance, 2, 487. Charge of the Light Brigade, The, 9, 471. Charcoalman, The, 9, 501. Charles II, The Escape of, 8, 187. Charles of Sweden, the Boy Con- queror, 8, 200. Chatterbox, The, 6, 352. Child, To a, 9, 440. Child and the Piper, The, 9, 8. Child Ballad, A, 9, 22. Child of the Forest, The, 2, 394. Childhood of Rustem, The, 4, 421. Children in the Wood, The, 6, 405. Children of Blentarn Ghyll, The, 7,64. Children's Hour, The, 9, 3. Child's Thought of God, A, 9, 46. Chimaera, The, 2, 202. Chocorua, A Night alone on, 7, 407. Christian passes through the Wick- et Gate, 5, 3. Christian's Fight with Apollyon, 32. Christmas, 9, 314. Christmas Bells, 9, 310. Christmas Carol, A, 9, 311. Christmas Poems, 9, 307. Cid, The Burial of the, 4, 410. Cid comes to the Aid of his King, The, 4, 368. Cid is driven into Banishment, The, 4, 356. Cid made a Coward into a Brave Man, How the, 4, 372. Cid ruled Valencia, How the, 4, 377. Cid's Last Victory, The, 4, 405. Cid's Two Daughters, The Mar- riage of the, to the Infantes of Carrion, 4, 386. Cincinnatus saved Rome, How, 3, 46. Cinderella; or, The Glass Slipper, 1, 101. Circe's Palace, 3, 288. Cloud, The, 9, 385. Cobbler, stick to your Last ; or, The Adventures of Joe Dobson, 6, 427. Colonists, The, 6, 75. " Come, dear children, let us away," 9, 179. " Come, let us plant the apple- tree," 9, 365. " Come, listen all unto my song," 9, 89. " Come listen to me, you gallants so free," 9, 222. " Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged, — 't is at a white heat now," 9, 490. Comedy of Errors, The, 5, 391. Comical Crow Baby, The, 7, 162. Coming of Friday, The, 5, 119. Compair Lapin and Mr. Turkey, 1, 464. Compair Lapin's Godchild, 1, 461. Concord Hymn, 9, 396. Conqueror's Grave, The, 9, 430. Conquest of Mambrino's Helmet, The, 5, 235. Constant Tin Soldier, The, 1, 246. Contented John, 6, 367. Contentment, 9, 461. Corn-Song, The, 9, 283. Country Maid and her Milkpail, The, 1, 499. Country where the Mice eat Iron, The, 1, 349. Courtin', The, 9, 497. Cradle Song, A, 6, 379. 506 INDEX OF TITLES Cratchits' Christmas Dinner, The, 10, 85. Cricket, The, 6, 371. Crossing the Bar, 9, 306. Crow, About the, 7, 159. Crow Baby, The Comical, 7, 162. Cupid and Psyche, 2, 240. Curtius, Marcus, The Sacrifice of, 3, 63. Cyclops, An Adventure with the, 3, 277. Daffodils, 9, 333. Daisies, 9, 44. Dandelion, To the, 9, 337. Dangers of the Streets, The, 6, 35. Daniel O'Rourke, 1, 449. Darius Green and his Flying- Machine, 9, 73. Darning-needle, The, 1, 252. Dartside, 9, 344. Day, A, 9, 514. Deacon's Masterpiece, The ; or, The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay, 9, 119. " Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way," 9, 337. " Dear me ! what signifies a pin ! " 6,454. " ' Dear mother,' said a little fish," 6, 434. Death of King Arthur, The, 4, 98. Death of Patroclus and the Battle of the River, The, 3, 219. Delectable Mountains, The, 5, 49. Descent into the Maelstrom, A, 10, 335. " Did you speak ? " 9, 14. Dinna Chide, 9, 424. Discontented Pendulum, The, 1, 504. Discoverer, The, 9, 55. Diverting History of John Gilpin, The, 6, 470. Dr. Kane to the Rescue, 8, 264. Dog, A Faithful, 7, 77. Dog and his Shadow, The, 1, 501. Dog in the Manger, The, 1, 498. Dog of Flanders, A, 10, 136. Dog Wisie, My, 7, 34. Domine, cui sunt Pleiades Curse, 9, 69. Don, 9, 350. Don Quixote, 5, 205. Don Quixote, The Return and Death of, 5, 272. Don Quixote determines to become a Knight, 5, 207. Don Quixote meets the Lions, 5, 245. Don Quixote's Battle with the Giants, 5, 241. Dorothy Q., 9,466. " Down in a green and shady bed," 6, 378. Dragon's Teeth, The, 2, 128. Duel between Hector and Ajax, The, 3, 207. Duel between the Fox and the Wolf, The, 1, 219. Dumas, Alexander, founds a News- paper, 8, 341. Dumb Soldier, The, 9, 12. Dwarf with the Long Beard, The, 2, 418. Dwarf's Gifts, The, 2, 303. Earl o' Quarterdeck, The, 9, 246. Elderly Gentleman, The, 6, 420. Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, 6, 393. Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, An, 6, 394. Elegy written in a Country Church- yard, 9, 434. Elephant has a Bet with the Tiger, The, 1, 357. Elephants, Training, in Ceylon, 7, 381. 507 INDEX OF TITLES Elephants that struck, The, 7, 192. Elixir, The, 9, 415. Elves and the Envious Neighbor, The, 2, 370. Envious Lobster, The, 6, 425. Eruption of Mount Vesuvius, The, 8, 393. Escape of an Exile from Siberia, 7, 491. Escape of Charles II, The, 8, 187. Escape of Louis Napoleon from the Fortress of Ham, The, 8, 291. "Every day brings a ship," 9, 415. Everybody's Favorites, 1, 1. Eyes and No Eyes, or The Art of Seeing, 6, 46. '" Faintly as tolls the evening chime," 9, 293. Fairies, The, 9, 469. Fairy Song, 9, 302. Faithful Dog, A, 7, 77. Faithful John, 1, 199. Familiarity Dangerous, 6, 353. Family Reunion, A, 9, 20. Farewell, A, 9, 418. Farmer Finch, 10, 299. Farmer John, 9, 463. Farragut, Midshipman, A Story of, 8, 72. " Father, I know that all my life," 9,441. " Father, who keepest," 9, 69. Fatherland, 9, 409. Fierabras defied King Charles, How, 4, 239. Fight between Paris and Mene- laus, The, 3, 198. Fight with the Windmills, The, 5, 215. Fir-tree, The, 1, 261. Firelight, 9, 454. Fireman's Life, The Risks of a, 7, 274. First Snow-Fall, The, 9, 46. Flight of .rfEneas from the Ruins of Troy, The, 3, 395. Flow gently, Sweet Afton, 9, 287. " Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes," 9, 287. Flower in the Crannied Wall, 9, 346. Forbearance, 9, 388. Forging of the Anchor, The, 9, 490. Forsaken Merman, The, 9, 179. Forty Thieves, Ali Baba and the, 5, 315. Fountain, The, 9, 346. " Four years ! — and didst thou stay above," 9, 357. Fox, About the, 7, 213. Fox and the Crow, The, 6, 363. Fox and the Grapes, The, 1, 497. Fox and the Stork, The, 1, 502. Fox and the Wolf, The Duel be- tween the, 1, 219. Fox in the Well, The, 1, 500. Foxes, The Grateful, 1, 326. France, Heroes of, 4, 227. Frank divides the Cake, 6, 26. Frank learns a New Way to eat, 6, 32. Fringed Gentian, To the, 9, 368. Frithiof, The Story of, 4, 193. Frog and the Ox, The, 1, 498. Frog-King, The, 1, 210. Froghopper Friend, My, 7, 126. " From morning to night 't was Lucy's delight," 6, 352. Frost, The, 6, 369. Funeral Games in Honor of Patro- clus, The, 3, 258. Funeral Games of Anchises, 3, 433. " Gallants, attend, and hear a friend," 6,466. Garden, The, 6, 395. 508 INDEX OF TITLES Garrison, The Mobbing of, 8, 89. Geist's Grave, 9, 357. General Washington, 6, 348. German Hero, The, 4, 297. Germany, Stories from, 1, 161. Ghost Fairies, 9, 43. Giant Builder, The, 2, 253. Giant Despair, The Castle of, 5, 38. Ginevra, 6, 463. Girl and the Panther, The, 7, 424. " God makes secL nights, all white an' still," 9, 497. " God might have bade the earth bring forth," 6, 365. God rest you, Merry Gentlemen, 6, 382. Golden Bird, The, 1, 34. Golden Egg and the Cock of Gold, The, 1, 507. Golden Fleece, The, 2, 60. Golden Rule, The, 6, 346. Golden Touch, The, 3, 92. " Good boys and girls will never say," 6, 351. " Good people all, of every sort," 6, 394. " Good people all with one accord," 6, 393. Goody Blake and Harry Gill, 6, 458. Goody Two-Shoes, The Renowned History of Little, 6, 81. Goose that laid Golden Eggs, The, 1,495. Gorgon's Head, The, 2, 29. Gosnold, Bartholomew, A Visit from the Indians to, 7, 401. Grammar Rhyme, A, 6, 357. " Grandmother's mother ; her age, I guess," 9, 466. Grateful Foxes, The, 1, 326. Graves of a Household, The, 6, 387. Great Stone Face, The, 10, 271. Greece and Rome, Myths of, 2,1. Greek Folk-Stories, Old, 3, 155. Grow Old along with me, 9, 439. Gudbrand on the Hillside, 1, 312. Guilielmus Rex, 9, 504. Gulliver is shipwrecked on the Coast of Lilliput, 5, 141. Gulliver seizes the Enemy's Fleet, 5, 154. Gulliver's Escape, 5, 189. Gulliver's Travels, 5, 139. " Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! " 9, 298. " Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! " 9., 381. " Half a dozen children," 9, 17. " Half a league, half a league," 9, 471. " Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick," 9,57. Hans in Luck, 1, 110. Hansel and Grethel, 1, 188. Happy Thought, 9, 329. Hare and Hounds at Rugby, 10, 57. Hare and the Hedgehog, The, 1, 215. Harebells, 9, 339. Hare's Lament, The, 6, 354. Hark! Hark ! the Lark, 9, 303. " Hark ! hark ! the lark at hea- ven's gate sings, " 9, 303. Harwell-Yates Game, The, 7, 168. " Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? " 9, 388. Haughty Princess, The, 1, 445. " Have you heard of the wonder- ful one-hoss shay," 9, 119. ; ' Have you heard the story that gossips tell," 9, 93. 509 INDEX OF TITLES "Have you not heard the poets tell," 9, 36. Havelok,4, 211. " He laughs by the summer stream," 9, 361. "Heap nigh the farmer's wintry hoard ! " 9, 283. " Hear the sledges with the bells," 9, 486. Hector, the Slaying of, 3, 245. Hector and Ajax, The Duel be- tween, 3, 207. Heir of Linne, The, 9, 238. Helvellyn, 9, 477. Henny-penny, 1, 19. " Here is the place ; right over the hill," 9, 159. Heritage, The, 9, 425. Herodotus, Stories from, 3, 1. Heroes of France, 4, 227. Heroes of the British Isles, 4,1. Heroine of the Fame Islands, The, 8, 221. Herv6 Kiel, 9, 150. Hiawatha's Childhood, 9, 9. High Tide on the Coast of Lincoln- shire, The, 9, 113. Highland Light, A Night at the, 7, 393. Hohenlinden, 9, 476. Holy Grail, The Institution of the Quest of the, 4, 47. " Home from his journey Farmer John," 9, 463. Home, Sweet Home, 9, 281. Homeward Bound, 5, 130. Honest Poverty, 9, 418. Hood, Robin, and the Butcher, 4, 177. Hood, Robin, and the Sorrowful Knight, 4, 162. Hop-o'-my-Thumb, 1, 44. Horatius, 9, 124. Horatius held the Bridge, How, 3, 43. House and the Road, The, 9, 455. House Beautiful, At the, 5, 18. Housekeeper, The, 9, 340. How Beecher conquered his Audi- ence, 8, 95. How Brother Fox failed to get his Grapes, 1, 480. How Cincinnatus saved Rome, 3, 46. How Cyrus laid the Cable, 9, 89. " How does the water," 9, 375. "How doth the little busy bee," 6, 345. How Fierabras defied King Charles, 4, 239. How Horatius held the Bridge, 3, 43. How Ralph the Charcoal-burner entertained King Charles, and afterwards went to Court, 4, 229. How the Cid made a Coward into a Brave Man, 4, 372. How the Cid ruled Valencia, 4, 377. How the Cowboys crossed the Big Boggy, 7, 228. How the Rajah's Son won the Princess Labam, 1, 396. How the Wolf Fenris was chained, 2, 293. How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 9, 175. How to train a Lion, 7, 333. Humble-Bee, The, 9, 348. Hunting of the Cheviot, The, 9, 251. Husband who was to mind the House, The, 1, 280. " Hush, my dear ! lie still and slumber," 6, 379. 510 INDEX OF TITLES Hymn on the Morning of Christ's Nativity, 9, 318. " I am monarch of all I survey," 9, 482. " I bring 1 fresh showers for the thirsting flowers," 9, 385. u I cannot tell what you say, green leaves," 9, 344. ' T climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn," 9, 477. " I come from haunts of coot and hern," 9, 373. " I, country-born an' bred, know where to find," 9, 334. * ' I had a garden when a child," 6, 395. " I have a little kinsman," 9, 55. " I hear thee speak of the better land," 6, 377. " I heard the bells on Christmas Day," 9, 310. " I '11 tell you how the sun rose," 9, 514. *'I met a little cottage-girl," 6, 375. " I never had a title-deed," 9, 503. " I never saw the hills so far," 9, 356, ** I saw him once before," 9, 495. " I saw the prettiest picture," 9, 14. " I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he," 9, 175. " I stood on the bridge at mid- night," 9, 421. I think when I read that Sweet Story of Old, 9, 304. " I wandered lonely as a cloud," 9, 333. "I wish the careful little girls," 9, 16. Icarus and Daedalus, 3, 161. Iduna's Apples, 2, 328.' ' ' If ever there lived a Yankee lad," 9,73. " If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance," 6, 463. Imprisonment of Adoniram Jud- son in Burmah, 8, 240. In a Quicksand, 7, 430. In March, 9, 332. " In Mather's ' Magnalia Christi,' " 9, 82. " In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes," 9, 333. In School-Days, 9, 157. " In their ragged regimentals," 9, 397. "In winter I get up at night," 9, 43. Inchcape Rock, The, 9, 147. Incident of ,the French Camp, 9, 166. India, Myths of, 2, 443. India, Stories from, 1, 347. Innkeeper's Bill, The, 5, 222. Institution of the Quest of the Holy Grail, The, 4, 47. " Into the sunshine," 9, 346. " Is there, for honest poverty," 9, 418. " It is an ancient Mariner," 9, 197. " It is not growing like a tree," 9, 439. " It was a summer evening," 6, 372. " It was the schooner Hesperus," 9, 26. " It was the time when lilies blow,' 1 9, 171. " It was the winter wild," 9, 318, Ivy Green, The, 9, 354. Jack and his Comrades, 1, 436. Jack and his Master, 1, 413. Jack and the Bean-Stalk, 1, 23. Jack the Giant-Killer, 1, 72. 511 INDEX OF TITLES Jackanapes, 10, 96. Japan, Myths of, 2, 361. 3apan, Stories from, 1, 319. Japanese Lullaby, 9, 291. " Jesus, He loves one and all," 9, 22. ' Joe Dobson was an Englishman," 6, 427. Jog on, Jog on, 9, 303. " Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way," 9, 303. John Burns of Gettysburg, 9, 93. " John Gilpin was a citizen," 6, 470. Jolly Old Pedagogue, The, 9, 505. Jo's First Story, 10, 359. Journey, A, 9, 356. Judson, Adoniram, in Burniah, Imprisonment of, 8, 240- Jumblies, The, 9, 267. " Just four hundred years ago," 9, 97- Juvenile Orator, The, 6, 362. Kane, Dr., to the Rescue, 8, 264. King Arthur, The Death of, 4, 98. King John and the Abbot of Can- terbury, 9, 226. King of the Golden River, The, 10, 3. King of the Tigers is Sick, The, 1, 364. King Volmer and Elsie, 9, 106. Kingfisher, The, 9, 361. King's Horse, A, 7, 211. Knighting of Rodrigo, The, 4, 351. Lad who went to the North Wind, The, 1, 303. Ladronius, the Prince of Thieves, 3,3. Lady Clare, 9, 171. Ladybug and the Ant, The, 6, 361. Lamplighter, The, 9, 68. Land of Story Books, The, 9, 41. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England, The, 9, 394. Lark and her Young Ones, The, 1, 501. "Lars Porsena of Clusium," 9, 124. Last Leaf, The, 9, 495. Launcelot and Elaine, 4, 70. Leak in the Dike, The, 9, 30. " Let dogs delight to bark and bite," 6, 353. " Let nothing disturb thee," 9, 447. Letters, 9, 415. Lewis and Clark, The Pathfinders, 8,40. Lilliputian Ode to the Man-Moun- tain, A, 5, 162. Lion, How to train a, 7, 333. Lion and the Missionary, The, 8, 236. Lion and the Mouse, The, 1, 496. Lion, the Fox, and the Story-teller, The, 1, 368. " Listen, my children, and you shall hear," 9, 85. " Lithe and listen, gentlemen, 9, 238. Little Billee, 9, 275. ' Little bird, with bosom red," 6, 341. Little Boy Blue, 9, 40. " Little drops of water," 6, 340. Little Fish that would not do as it was bid, The, 6, 434. Little Fisherman, The, 6, 431. " Little I ask ; my wants are few," 9, 461. ' ' Little inmate, full of mirth," 6, 371. Little Kindnesses, 9, 413. Little Lamb, 9, 339. " Little lamb, who made thee ? " 9, 339. 512 INDEX OF TITLES Little One Eye, Little Two Eyes, and Little Three Eyes, 1, 9. Little Peachling, The Adventures of, 1, 321. Little Philosopher, The, 6, 110. Little Red Riding-Hood, 1, 3. Little Snow-white, 1, 163. Little Things, 6, 340. Little White Lily, 9, 341. Livt, Stories from, 3, 29. Llewellyn and his Dog, 6, 455. " Lochiel ! Lochiel, heware of the day," 6, 389. Lochiel's Warning, 6, 389. Lochinvar, 9, 145. " Lord, thou hast given me a cell," 9, 427. Lord Ullin's Daughter, 9, 167. Lucknow, The Relief of, 9, 103. juucy Gray, or Solitude, 6, 413. Lycurgus, 8, 373. Mabel on Midsummer Day, 6, 445 Madison, Dolly, and the Burning of Washington, 8, 75. Maelstrom, A Descent into the, 10, 335. Mahala Joe, 10, 419. Maid and her Milk-Pail, The Coun- try, 1, 499. Mambrino's Helmet, The Conquest of, 5, 235. Man and his Piece of Cloth, The, 1, 367. "Man wants but little here below," 9, 458. Man without a Country, The, 10, 450. Manawyddan and the Seven En- chanted Cantrevs, 4, 148. " Many a long, long year ago," 9, 91. March, In, 9, 332. Market Day, 9, 266. Marriage of the Cid's Two Daugh- ters to the Infantes of Carrion, The, 4, 386. " Mary had a little lamb," 6, 340. Mary's Lamb, 6, 340. Meddlesome Matty, 6, 429. Men who explored the Mississippi, The, 8, 14. Merchant of Venice, The, 5, 410. " Merrily swinging on brier and weed," 9, 329. " 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam," 9, 281. Midshipmen's Pranks, 7, 197. Milan Bird-cages, The, 9, 97. ' ' Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord," 9, 400. Minotaur, The, 2, 166. Minstrel Boy, The, 6, 388. Miraculous Pitcher, The, 3, 67. Miss Beulah's Bonnet, 10, 383. Mississippi, The Men who Explored the, 8, 14. Mobbing of Garrison, The, 8, 89. Modern Stories, 10, 1. Moon, Are there People in the, 7, 315. Moses goes to the Fair, 6, 171. Mountain and the Squirrel, The, 9, 454. Mouse, To a, 9, 370. Muchie Lai, 2, 445. Mud Pony, The Boy and the, 1, 466. Munchausen, Baron, The Trav- els of, 5, 371. Musical Instrument, A, 9, 177. My Country, 't is of Thee, 9, 393. My Dog Wisie, 7, 34. My Escape from the Patagonians, 7, 471. " My fairest child, I have no song to give you," 9, 418. 513 INDEX OF TITLES My Froghopper Friend, 7, 126. My Hunt after " the Captain," 8, 100. " My tea is nearly ready and the snn has left the sky," 9, 68. My Tenants, 9, 503. "My Times are in Thy Hand," 9, 441. Mysterious Footprint, The, 5, 103. Myths of Greece and Rome, 2, 1. Myths of India, 2, 448. Myths of Japan, 2, 361. Myths of Scandinavia, 2, 251. Myths of the Slavs, 2, 399. Napoleon, Louis, The Escape of, from the Fortress of Ham, 8, 291. Napoleon Bonaparte, The Return of, from Elha, and his Recep- tion at Grenoble, 8, 275. Naturalist among the Alligators, A, 8, 23. Nearer Home, 9, 292. Nedzumi, 2, 372. Night alone on Chocorua, A, 7, 407. Night at the Highland Light, A, 7, 393. Nightingale, Florence, 8, 467. Niobe, 3, 169. No Steam, 7, 325. " No stir in the air, no stir in the sea," 9, 147. Noble Nature, The, 9, 439. Nonsense Verse, 9, 263. " Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note," 9, 475. Not a Pin to choose between them, 1, 295. Nothing, 9, 345. u Now ponder well, you parents dear," 6, 405. O Captain ! My Captain ! 9, 403. " O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done," 9, 403. Little Town of Bethlehem, 9, 312. 1 c O Mary, go and call the cattle home," 9,288. O Ship of State ! 9, 408. " Of Nelson and the North," 9, 451. " Oft has it been my lot to mark," 6, 416. " Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray," 6, 413. " Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green," 9, 354. " Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light," 9, 399. " Oh, say what is that thing called Light," 6, 356. " Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort! "9, 103. " Oh ! what 's the matter ? what 's the matter ? " 6, 458. " Oh, young Loehinvar is come out of the west," 9, 145. Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 9, 510. Old-Fashioned Stories, 6, 1. Old Greek Folk-Stories, 3, 155. Old Ironsides, 9, 402. Old Man's Comforts, The, and how he gained them, 6, 368. Old Story Books, 6, 398. " Old story books ! old story books ! we owe ye much, old friends," 6, 398. "On Haverhill's pleasant hills there played," 9, 52. On his Blindness, 9, 429. " On Linden, when the sun was low," 9, 476. On the Loss of the Royal George,, 9, 473. 514 INDEX OF TITLES " On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two," 9, 150. " On the top of the Crumpetty Tree," 9, 270. u One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher," 6, 367. " One sweetly solemn thought," 9, 292. *' One ugly trick has often spoiled," 6, 429. Opportunity, 9, 440. Orpheus and Eurydice, 3, 157. Other Poems, 9, 449. Otter's Bahies, Who killed the, 1, 354. " Our hand is few, but true and tried," 9, 295. Our First Whale, 7, 146. Our New Neighbors at Ponkapog, 7, 484. Our Rural Divinity, 7, 246. Out-of-Door Book, The, 7, 1. " Over hill, over dale," 9, 302. " Over his keys the musing organ- ist," 9, 184. Ovid, Stories from, 3, 65. Owain and the Lady of the Foun- tain, 4, 115. Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The, 9, 265. Palace of the Ocean-Bed, The, 2, 375. Panch-Phul Ranee, 2, 456. Paradise of Children, The, 2, 107. Paris and Menelaus, The Fight between, 3, 198. Parley the Porter, 6, 114. Patagonians, My Escape from the, 7, 471. Pathfinders, Lewis and Clark, The, 8, 40. Patroclus and the Battle of the River, The Death of, 3, 219. Paul Revere's Ride, 9, 85. " Pawtucket is a famous place," 6, 438. Peaehling, The Adventures of Little, 1, 321. "Peet-weet! Peet-weet," 9,362. Persian Hero, The, 4, 419. Pet Lamb, The, 6, 348. Peterkins, The, are obliged to move, 10, 373. Petitioners for Pardon, The, 8, 317. Phaethon, 3, 164. Phantom Ship, The, 9, 82. Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, 9, 57. Pigs, The Story of the, 1, 474. Pilgrim's Progress, The, 5, 1. Pilgrims wander from the Way, The, 5, 54. Pilot of the Lachine Rapids, The, 7, 107. Pin, The, 6, 454. " Piping down the valleys wild,*' 9,8. Planting of the Apple-tree, The, 9, 365. "Please, sir, I wish a spool of beans," 9, 266. " Pluck not the wayside flower," 9, 355. Poems about Children, 9, 1. Poems and Rhymes, 6, 337. Poems of Nature, 9, 327. Poems of Our Country, 9, 391. Poems to think About, 9, 411. Politeness, 6, 351. Polly's Outing, 7, 58. Polly's Pranks, 7, 52. Pomegranate Seeds, The, 3, 114. Pond, The, 6, 435. Prince with the Golden Hand, The, 2, 401. 515 INDEX OF TITLES Prince's Visit, The, 10, 68. Psalm of Life, 9, 413. Punishments in Camp, 7, 96. Purple Jar, The, 6, 3. Puss in Boots, 1, 86. Putnam, Israel, 8, 33. Pwyll and the Game of Badger in the Bag, 4, 140. Pygmalion and Galatea, 2, 234. Pygmies, The, 2, 3. Pyramus and Thisbe, 3, 172. Quangle Wangle's Hat, The, 9, 270. Quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles, The, 3, 188. Queen of the Pirate Isle, The, 10, 217. Quern Stones, The Wonderful, 2, 352. Quest of the Hammer, The, 2, 278. Quicksand, In a, 7, 430. Quiet Walk with Stanley in Africa, A, 8, 260. Race for Life, A, 10, 265. Rai-taro, the Son of the Thunder- God, 2, 387. Raja's Son won the Princess La- bam, How the, 1, 396. Ralph the Charcoal-burner enter- tained King Charles, and af- terwards went to Court, How, 7, 229. Raven and the Cattle, The, 1, 374. Redbreast, To a, 6, 341. Relief of Lucknow, The, 9, 103. Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, 6, 81. Report of an Adjudged Case, 6, 418. Return and Death of Don Quixote, The, 5, 272. Return of Napoleon Bonaparte from Elba, The, and his Re- ception at Grenoble, 8, 275. Revolutionary Tea, 6, 436. Rhodora, The, 9, 333. Ride on the Wooden Horse, The r 5, 256. Rime of the Ancient Mariner, 9, 197. " Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky," 9, 314. Rip Van Winkle, 10, 186. Risks of a Fireman's Life, The, 7 f 274. Robert of Lincoln, 9, 329. Robin Hood and Allin a Dale, 9> 222. Robin Hood and the Butcher, 4 r 177. Robin Hood and the Sorrowful Knight, 4, 162. Robinson Crusoe, 5, 71. Robinson Crusoe builds a boat, 5. 97. Robinson Crusoe is shipwrecked^ 5, 73. Robinson Crusoe's First Home on the Island, 5, 89. Robinson Crusoe's Island, A Visit to, 7, 116. Rodrigo, The Knighting of, 4, 351. Rodrigo and the Leper, 4, 349. Rogue and the Simpleton, The, 1, 351. Romulus, Founder of Rome, 3, 31. Royal George, On the Loss of the,, 9, 473. Runaway Locomotive, A, 7, 87. Rustem, The Childhood of, 4, 421. Rustem, The Seven Adventures of, 4, 425. Rustem and Sohrab, 4, 450. S. P. C. T. T., 9, 16. 516 INDEX OF TITLES Sacrifice of Marcus Curtius, The, Sir Patrick Spens, 9, 230. 3,63, Sam Patch, The Story of, 6, 438. Sandford and Merton, 6, 149. Sandpiper, The, 9, 380. Sands of Dee, The, 9, 288. Santa Teresa's Book-Mark, 9, 447. Scandinavia, Myths of, 2, 251. Scandinavian and Danish He- roes, 4, 191. School-Days, In, 9, 157. " Scots, whahae wi' Wallace bled," 9, 290. Scott, Winfield, at the Battle of Queenstown, 8, 66. Scylla and Charybdis, 3, 326. Sea is Salt, Why the, 1, 288. Sea Song, 9, 280. Sea, the Fox, and the Wolf, The, 1, 370. Selkirk Grace, The, 9, 453. Seven Adventures of Rustem, The, 4, 425. Shakespeare, Tales from, 5, 389. Shandon Bells, The, 9, 508. " She doeth little kindnesses," 9, 413. Shepherd-Boy and the Wolf, The, 1,495. Shepherd of King Admetus, The, 9, 169. " Should auld acquaintance be for- got," 9, 289. " Shut in from all the world with- out," 9, 454. Siberia, Escape of an Exile from, 7, 491. Siegfried, 4, 299. Simple Susan, 6, 253. Sindbad the Sailor, 5, 336. Singh Rajah and the Cunning Little Jackals, 1, 375. Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, 4, 60. Sirens, The, — Scylla and Cha- rybdis, 3, 326. Six Swans, The, 1, 181. Skylark, To a, 9, 381. Slavs, Myths of the, 2, 399. Slaying of Hector, The, 3, 245. Sleep, Baby, Sleep, 9, 45. " Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings," 9, 291. Sleeping Beauty, The, 1, 116. Sluggard, The, 6, 392. "Small service is true service while it lasts," 9, 440. Snail, The, 6, 360. Snow Fort on Slatter's Hill, The, 10, 75. Snow-Storm, The, 9, 372. Snowbird's Song, The, 6, 342. " Some hae meat and canna eat," 9, 453. " Somewhat back from the village street," 9, 510. Son of Seven Queens, The, 1, 385. Song from " Pippa Passes," 9, 282. Song of Clan-Alpine, 9, 298. Song of Marion's Men, 9, 295. Songs, 9, 277. Sore Tongue, The, 6, 39. Sound the Loud Timbrel, 9, 302. " Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! " 9, 302. Spacious Firmament on High, The, 9, 389. Spanish Hero, The, 4, 347. Spider and the Fly, The, 6, 411. Spring in New England, 9, 334. Star-Lovers, The, 2, 391. Star of Bethlehem, The, 6, 381. Star-Spangled Banner, The, 9, 399. Stay, stay at Home, my Heart, and rest, 9, 282. Steeple-Climber, The, 7, 347. 517 INDEX OF TITLES 44 Still sits the school-house hy the road," 9, 157. Stories from Germany, 1, 161. Stories from Herodotus, 3, 1. Stories from India, 1, 347. Stories from Japan, 1, 319. Stories from Livy, 3, 29. Stories from Ovid, 3, 65. Stories from the Life of Julius Caesar, 8, 403. Stories from the Shores of the North Sea, 1, 231. Stories in Verse, 6, 403. Stories of the Trojan War, 3, 177. Stories Old and New, 1, 493. Story of Aladdin, The, 5, 287. Story of Frithiof, The, 4, 193. Story of Midshipman Farragut, A, 8, 72. Story of Sam Patch, The, 6, 438. Story of the "Barefoot Boy," 9, 52. Story of the Pigs, The, 1, 474. Story of Virginia, The, 3, 52. Story-teller at Fault, The, 1, 423. Story-telling Poems, 9, 71. Sun, The ; or, The Three Golden Hairs of the Old Man Vsevede, 2, 430. Sun and the Wind, The, 1, 496. " Sunset and evening star," 9, 306. Suppose ! 9, 420. " Suppose, my little lady," 9, 420. Sweet and Low, 9, 286. " Sweet and low, sweet and low," 9, 286. Swinging on a Birch-tree, 9, 342. Swiss Family Robinson's First Day on the Desert Island, The, 6, 56. " 'T is the voice of the sluggard, I hear him complain," 6, 392. " 'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago," 9, 505. " 'T was the night before Christ- mas, when all through the house," 6, 343. Tales from Shakespeare, 5, 389. Teakettle, The Accomplished and Lucky, 1, 324. " Teach me, my God and King," 9, 415. " Tell me not, in mournful num- bers," 9, 413. Telling the Bees, 9, 159. Tempest, The, 5, 428. Thanatopsis, 9, 443. Thanksgiving to God, for his House, A, 9, 427. " The boy stood on the burning deck," 6, 346, " The breaking waves dashed high," 9, 394. " The Butterfly, an idle thing," 6, 368. " The cock is crowing," 9, 332. " The curfew tolls the knell of parting day," 9, 434. " The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink," 6, 348. " The Dog will come when he is called," 6, 358. " The elderly gentleman 's here," 6, 420. " The Family once gave a Fete," 9,20. "The folk who lived in Shake- speare's day," 9, 504. " The fox and the crow," 6, 363. " The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night," 6, 369. " The frugal snail, with forecast of repose," 9, 340. " The good dame looked from her cottage," 9, 30. 518 INDEX OF TITLES " The ground was all covered with snow one day," 6, 342. " The king called his hest archers," 9, 234. " The king sits in Dunfermline toun," 9, 230. " The ladybug sat in the rose's heart," 6, 361. "The little Road says Go," 9, 455. " The little toy dog is covered with dust," 9, 40. " The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone," 6, 388. u The mountain and the squirrel," 9, 454. " The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower," 9, 113. " The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea," 9, 265. " The Percy out of Northumber- land," 9, 251. " The rich man's son inherits lands," 9, 425. " The snail, how he creeps slowly over the wall," 6, 360. " The snow had begun in the gloam- ing," 9, 46. u The spacious firmament on high," 9, 389. "The spearmen heard the bugle sound," 6, 455. " The splendor falls on castle walls," 9, 286. " The summer and autumn had been so wet," 9, 100. " The sun had sunk in the west,' ' 9, 161. " The wind it blew, and the ship it flew," 9, 246. " The wind one morning sprang up from sleep," 6, 385. " The word of the Lord by night," 9, 404. " The world is so full of a number of things," 9, 329. " The year 's at the spring," 9, 282. " There came a youth upon the earth," 9, 169. " There is nothing to see," 9, 345. " There 's a song in the air ! " 9, 311. " There was a little fellow once," 6, 431. " There was a round pond, and a pretty pond too," 6, 435. " There was a sound of revelry by night," 9, 484. " There was an old lady who lived o'er the sea," 6,436. " There were three sailors of Bris- tol city," 9, 275. " They grew in beauty, side by side," 6, 387. " They say that God lives very high," 9, 46. " They went to sea in a sieve, they did," 9, 267. Things by their Right Names, 6, 24. Things I miss, The, 9, 513. " This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream," 9, 440. " This is Don, the dog of all dogs," 9, 350. This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 9, 446. Thor's Adventures among the Jotuns, 2, 263. Those Evening Bells, 9, 294. " Those evening bells ! those even- ing bells ! " 9, 294. " Thou blossom bright with au- tumn dew," 9, 368. " Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! " 9, 408. 519 INDEX OF TITLES " Though rudely blows the wintry blast," 9, 501. Three Bears, The, 1, 6. Three Children sliding on the Ice, 6, 351. Three Fishers, The, 9, 305. " Three fishers went sailing out into the west," 9, 305. Three Kings, The, 9, 315. " Three Kings came riding from far away," 9, 315. Three Sillies, The, 1, 67. Three Thousand Three Hundred and Odd Lashes, The, 5, 265. Through the Flood on Foot, 9, 161. Thurabling, 1, 175. Tiger, The, 9, 353. Tiger, the Fox, and the Hunters, The, 1, 371. " Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright," 9, 353. Tin Soldier, The Constant, 1, 246. Tit for Tat, 1, 383. Tit for Tat (verse), 6, 443. To a Child, 9, 440. To a Mouse, 9, 370. To a Redbreast, 6, 341. To a Skylark, 9, 381. To a Waterfowl, 9, 369. " To do to others as I would,' ' 6, 346. " To him who in the love of Nature holds," 9, 443. To the Dandelion, 9, 337. To the Fringed Gentian, 9, 368. " Toll for the brave," 9, 473. Tom Thumb, 1, 93. Tommy decides to study Arithme- tic, 6, 160. Tommy Merton meets Harry Sand- ford, 6, 149. Tongue-cut Sparrow, The, 1, 334. Tortoise and the Hare, The, 1, 500. Training Elephants in Ceylon, 7, 381. Traveler's Ordeal, A, 7, 439. Travels of Baron Munchau- sen, The, 5, 371. Trenck, Baron, 8, 423. Trial by Swords, The, 4, 398. Trial of Psyche, The, 2, 246. Trojan War, Stories of the, 3, 177. Tune that makes the Tiger Drowsy, The, 1, 363. Turtle and Flamingo, The, 9, 273. Twin Babies, 7, 3. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, 6, 339. Two Little Runaways, 10, 44. Two Scenes from the Life of George Washington, 8, 456. Ugly Duckling, The, 1, 233. Ulysses, The Vengeance of, 3, 351. Ulysses, The Wanderings of, 3, 275. Ulysses at the House of the Swine- herd, 3, 339. Ulysses in Ithaca, 3, 331. " Under a spreading chestnut-tree," 9, 456. Unknown Country, The, 9, 433. Unloading a Wreck, 5, 82. Unwilling Rebel, An, 8, 182. "Up the airy mountain," 9, 469. Use of Flowers, The, 6, 365. Vengeance of Ulysses, The, 3, 351. Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 9, 482. Vesuvius, Mount, The Eruption of, 8, 393. Village Blacksmith, The, 9, 456. Violet, The, 6, 378. Virginia, The Story of, 3, 52. Vision of Sir Launfal, The, 9, 184. 520 INDEX OF TITLES Vision of Tsunu, The, 2, 383. Visit from St. Nicholas, A, 6, 343. Visit from the Indians to Bartholo- mew Gosnold, A, 7, 401. Visit to Robinson Crusoe's Island, A, 7, 116. Visit to the House of the Inter- preter, A, 5, 7. Vulcan makes Armor for Achilles, 3, 238. Wager, The, 6, 12. Waiting for the Bugle, 9, 515. " Walking forth, ono summer's day," 6, 354. Wanderings of the Trojan MKRAS, The, 3, 393. Wanderings of Ulysses, The, 3, 275. Wants of Man, The, 9, 45S. War Eagle and Other Soldiers' Pets, The, 7, 22. Washington, Dolly Madison and the Burning of, 8, 75. Washington, George, Two Scenes from the Life of, 8, 456. Waterfowl, To a, 9, 369. Waterloo, 9, 484. Wayside Flowers, 9, 355. We are Seven, 6, 375. " We wait for the bugle ; the night dews are cold," 9, 515. " We were crowded in the cabin," 9,39. u Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie," 9, 370. Wee Willie Winkie, 10, 242. Whale, Our First, 7, 146. "What is the little one thinking about," 9, 6. What the Winds bring, 9, 17. "What was he doing, the great god Pan," 9, 177. " What ! you want to hear a story all about the old-time glory," 9, 23. When Clara Morris first met Gar- field, 7, 268. " When General Washington was young," 6, 348. " When I consider how my light is spent," 9, 429. " When marshaled on the nightly plain," 6, 381. When the Bees swarmed, 7, 10. " When the grass was closely mown," 9, 12. " When the open fire is lit," 9, 43. " Where did you come from, baby dear?" 9,5. " Where is the unknown coun- try ? " 9, 433. " Where, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones of the Horg," 9, 106. ' ' Which is the Wind that brings the cold ? " 9, 17. While Shepherds watched their Flocks by Night, 9, 309. White Cat, The, 1, 130. White Champion of the Algon- quins, The, 8, 47. " Whither, 'midst falling dew," 9, 369. Whittington and his Cat, 1, 55. Who killed the Otter's Babies, 1, 354. Why Brother Bear has no Tail, 1, 487. "Why, Phebe, are you come so soon ? " 6, 422. Why the Cat always falls upon her Feet, 1, 519. Why the Evergreen Trees never lose their Leaves, 1, 514. Why the Sea is Salt, 1, 288. Why there is a Man in the Moon. 1, 517. 521 INDEX OF TITLES "'Will you walk into my par- lor ? ' said the spider to the fly," 6, 411. William of Cloudesle\ 9, 234. Wind in a Frolic, The, 6, 385. " With deep affection," 9, 508. " Within this lowly grave a Con- queror lies," 9, 430. Wolf Fenris was Chained, How the, 2, 293. Wonderful One-Hosa Shay, The, 9, 119. Wonderful Quern Stones, The, 2, 352. Wooden Horse and the Fall of Troy, The, 3, 269. Woodland Intimate, A, 7, 131. Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 9, 26. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, 9, 279. " Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night, " 9, 279. Ye Mariners of England, 9, 300. " ' You are old, Father William,' the young man cried," 6, 368. "You'd scarce expect one of my age," 6, 362. 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