think he'll forgive us."
"You'd better go explain," urged Claudia, "and throw in that landscape
with the cow that seems to have five legs and belongs to Mr. Harness.
Perhaps he'll forgive that, too."
Emma went,--she was an amiable girl. She was not pretty like her sister,
Mrs. Raimund, who had married the great railway man and was a power in
Chicago society; but there was something in the radiant neatness and
good humor of the plain sister which made her pleasant to look upon.
Winslow's mouth and eyes relaxed at her greeting, and he smiled over her
official quotation of the Millers' claims.
"King George's table? H'mn; which table, second or third?" His eyes
twinkled at Emma, whose own eyes twinkled back.
"They're awfully good women," said she, in a kind of compunction.
"None better," said he.
As he passed on, with his little son at his side, she thought: "He isn't
nearly so grim as I used to think."
Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Winter were a few paces behind. They halted before
the china, which Mrs. Winter examined; but Mrs. Winslow's weary eyes
lingered hardly a moment before they found some other object on which to
rest and leave as briefly.
"It is to be hoped this priceless relic won't be damaged in any way,"
said Mrs. Winter. "Still"--she bent confidentially toward Emma--"if such
a calamity should occur, I know a shop in Chicago where you can get
plenty for three dollars and ninety-nine cents."
"I hope nothing will happen to it," said Emma, with stolid reticence.
Mrs. Winslow had not listened, her listless face had been transformed;
it was illumined now by the loveliest of smiles; she half put out her
hand as a little boy snuggled up to her silken skirts, with a laugh.
"Papa letted me come," he said gaily, "and Peggy's here, too,--there!"
Peggy was attired with great care, her long red curls were shining and
her eyes sparkled.
Immediately both children were immersed in the beauties of a collection
of rejected models which had been obtained from the patent office, and
which, surely, were the most diverting toys imaginable.
"Poor things, to them they _are_ most valuable!" sighed Mrs. Winslow.
She was making conversation about the Miller china; but Johnny-Ivan and
Peggy not unreasonably conceived that she spoke of the beautiful churns
and hayraking wagons and cars and wheeled chairs and the like marvels
which Miss Hopkins was amiably explaining for them.
"The least chip would be irreparable, I suppose," continued Mrs. Winter,
"thousands couldn't pay if one were broken!"
"Imagine the feelings of the custodian," said Emma. "I'm in a tremble
all the time."
"I pity you," said Mrs. Winter, as the two ladies passed on to Mrs.
Winter's great-grandmother's blue and white embroidered bedspread.
"Oh, Peggy, _do_ be careful!" whispered Johnny-Ivan; Peggy was sending a
velocipede in dizzy circles round the counter.
Now fate had ordered that at this critical instant the children should
be unguarded. Miss Hopkins had stepped aside at the call of an agitated
lady who had lost one of her art treasures in carriage; for the moment,
there was no one near save a freckled boy in shabby overalls, who eyed
the toys wistfully from afar. He was the same little boy whom
Johnny-Ivan had bribed with a jack-knife to close the gate a few weeks
before; and he was in the Museum to help his mother, the scrub-woman of
the store.
Peggy grew more pleased with her play. The velocipede described wider
and wider gyrations with accelerating speed; its keen buzz swelled on
the air.
"It'll hit somepin!" warned Johnny-Ivan in an access of fear.
But Peggy's soul was dauntless to recklessness. "No, it won't," she
flung back. Her shining head was between Johnny and the whirling wheels.
He thought a most particularly beautiful little swinging gate in peril
and tried to swerve the flying thing; how it happened, neither of the
children knew; there was a smash, a crash, and gate and velocipede lay
in splinters under a bronze bust. The glass of the show-case was etched
with a sinister gray line.
"_Now_ look what you've done!" exclaimed Peggy, with the natural
irritation of disaster. "Oh, my!" squeaked the shabby little boy, "won't
you catch it!" Peggy's anger was swallowed up in fright and sympathy;
she pushed Johnny-Ivan ahead of her. "That Miss Hopkins is looking,"
cried she, "get behind these folks down the aisle!"
She propelled the little boy out of the immediate neighborhood of the
calamity; she forced a wicked, deceitful smile (alas! guile comes easy
to her sex) and pointed out things to him, whispering, "Look pleasant!
Don't be so scared! They'll never know we did it." Already she was
shouldering her share in crime, with a woman's willingness; she said
"we" quite unconsciously; but she added (and this was of direct
volition): "I did it more'n you; you were just trying to keep the nasty
thing straight; I was a heap more to blame. Anyhow, I guess it ain't so
awful bad. Just those wooden things."
Johnny-Ivan shook a tragic head; even his lips had gone bluish-white.
"She said thousands wouldn't repair the damage," moaned he.
"You can't make me believe those mean little wooden tricks are worth any
thousand dollars!" volleyed Peggy; nevertheless, her heart beat
faster,--grown people are so queer. "Are you sure she meant _them_?
Maybe it was those things in the next glass case; they're her own
things! They're some kind of Chinese china and cost a heap." Peggy's
sturdy womanly wits were rising from the shock.
"And the show-case is broked!" sniffed Johnny-Ivan, gulping down a sob.
"It ain't broke, it's only cracked; 'sides, it was cracked a right smart
befo'!"
"But this was a new place--I know, 'cause I cut my finger on the other,
scraping it over."
"Well, anyhow, I reckon it didn't be much value," Peggy insisted.
"I saw that young lady come back,"--Johnny-Ivan had switched on to a new
track leading to grisly possibilities--"maybe _she'll_ find it!"
"Well, we're gone, all right."
Peggy gave an unprincipled giggle; "Maybe she'll think it was _him_."
"Then we _got_ to tell," moaned Johnny.
"No, we ain't. He'll run off and so she won't ask him questions."
"But she'll _think_ it's him. It'll be mean."
"No it won't."
"It's mean to have somebody else take your blame or your punishment;
mamma said so."
The small casuist was too discreet to attack Johnny's oracle; she only
pouted her pretty lips and quibbled:
"'Tain't mean if the people who get blamed are mean themselves--like
him. I don't care _how_ blamed he gets; I wouldn't care if he got
licked."
But Johnny's conscience was not so elastic. "I don't care, either," he
protested. "I--I wouldn't care if he was _deaded_"--anxious to
propitiate--"but it would be mean just the same. I got to tell papa,
Peggy, I truly have."
Peggy grew very cross. "You are just the foolest, obsternatest little
boy I ever did see," she grumbled; "you're a plumb idiot! I'd like to
slap you! Your papa'll be awful mad."
Johnny-Ivan essayed an indifferent mien, but his eyes were miserable.
"Say, Jo'nivan,"--her voice sank to a whisper that curdled his
blood--"were you ever spanked?"
"Only Hilma sorter kinder--not really _spanking_, you know," confessed
Johnny with a toss of his head. "I just made faces at her; I didn't
cry!" he bragged.
"Never your mamma or your papa?"
"Course not," said Johnny with a haughty air; "but, Peggy," he said very
low, "were you--did--"
"Oh, my, yes! Mammy did when I was little. I'm too big now."
"I'm too big, too, now, ain't I?"
"I don't know," said Peggy. "Wulf Greiner was licked by teacher, and
he's thirteen. It's whether it's mighty bad, you know."
Johnny-Ivan caught his breath and his legs shook under him; the horror
of his father's "licking" him came over him cold; it was not the pain;
he had never minded Hilma's sturdy blows and he had let Michael cut a
splinter out of his thumb with a pocket-knife, and never whimpered; it
was the ignominy, the unknown terror of his father's wrath that looked
awful to him. As he looked down the crowded room and suddenly beheld
Winslow's face bent gravely over Miss Hopkins, who was talking
earnestly, he could hardly move his feet. Yet he had no thought of
wavering. "I _got_ to tell," he said, and walked as fast as he could,
with his white face, straight to the group.
Winslow looked down and saw the two children; and one could discover the
signals of calamity in their faces: Peggy's a fine scarlet and
Johnny-Ivan's grayish-white.
"What's the matter, Johnny?" asked Winslow.
Johnny's eyelids were glued tight--just as they were when he pulled
Peggy's tooth--he blurted everything out breathlessly: "I've done
something _awful_, papa! It'll cost thousands of dollars."
Emma Hopkins had considered Winslow an unattractive man, of a harsh
visage, but now, as he looked at his little son, she changed her mind.
"What did you do, son?" said he quietly; his hand found Johnny's brown
curls and lay on them a second.
"He didn't do it, really; it was _me_," Peggy broke in, too agitated for
grammar. "I was playing with the little tricks on the table, the models,
sah, and I was making the v'losipid run round and he was 'fraid I'd
break it; but _I_ did it, really, sah."
"And the model fell on to something valuable? I see."
"But he wasn't playing with it, he was only trying to keep me from
breaking--"
"Well, young lady, you two are evidently in the same boat; but you
aren't a bit sneaky, either of you. Let's see the wreckage; I suppose
you got into trouble because you wanted to see how things worked, and
Johnny, as usual, couldn't keep out of other folks' hot water. Where's
the ruin?"
"The show-case is broked, too," said Johnny-Ivan in a woeful, small
voice.
"But it was cracked before," interjected Peggy.
Winslow looked at her with a little twist. "That's a comfort," said he,
"and you have horse sense, my little Southerner. I guess you didn't
either of you mean any harm--"
"Indeed, no, sah, and Johnny was just as good; never touched a thing--"
"But you see your intentions didn't protect you. Distrust good
intentions, my dears; look out for the possible consequences. However, I
think there is one person to blame you haven't mentioned, and that is
one Josiah C. Winslow, who let two such giddy young persons explore by
themselves. Contributory negligence is proved; and said Winslow will pay
the bill and not kick."
So saying, he took Peggy's warm, chubby little fingers in one of his big
white hands and Johnny-Ivan's cold little palm in the other, and nodded
a farewell to Emma.
THE BALLAD OF GRIZZLY GULCH[1]
BY WALLACE IRWIN
The rocks are rough, the trail is tough,
The forest lies before,
As madly, madly to the hunt
Rides good King Theodore
With woodsmen, plainsmen, journalists
And kodaks thirty-four.
The bob-cats howl, the panthers growl,
"He sure is after us!"
As by his side lopes Bill, the Guide,
A wicked-looking cuss--
"Chee-chee!" the little birds exclaim,
"Ain't Teddy stren-oo-uss!"
Though dour the climb with slip and slime,
King Ted he doesn't care,
Till, cracking peanuts on a rock,
Behold, a Grizzly Bear!
King Theodore he shows his teeth,
But he never turns a hair.
"Come hither, Court Photographer,"
The genial monarch saith,
"Be quick to snap your picture-trap
As I do yon Bear to death."
"Dee-lighted!" cries the smiling Bear,
As he waits and holds his breath.
Then speaks the Court Biographer,
And a handy guy is he,
"First let me wind my biograph,
That the deed recorded be."
"A square deal!" saith the patient Bear,
With ready repartee.
And now doth mighty Theodore
For slaughter raise his gun;
A flash, a bang, an ursine roar--
The dready deed is done!
And now the kodaks thirty-four
In chorus click as one.
The big brown bruin stricken falls
And in his juices lies;
His blood is spent, yet deep content
Beams from his limpid eyes.
"Congratulations, dear old pal!"
He murmurs as he dies.
From Cripple Creek and Soda Springs,
Gun Gulch and Gunnison,
A-foot, a-sock, the people flock
To see that deed of gun;
And parents bring huge families
To show what _they_ have done.
In the damp corse stands Theodore
And takes a hand of each,
As loud and long the happy throng
Cries, "Speech!" again and "Speech!"
Which pleaseth well King Theodore,
Whose practice is to preach.
"Good friends," he says, "lead outdoor lives
And Fame you yet may see--
Just look at Lincoln, Washington,
And great Napoleon B.;
And after that take off your hats
And you may look at me!"
But as he speaks, a Messenger
Cries, "Sire, a telegraft!"
The king up takes the wireless screed
Which he opens fore and aft,
And reads: "The Venezuelan stew
Is boiling over. TAFT."
Then straight the good King Theodore
In anger drops his gun
And turns his flashing spectacles
Toward high-domed Washington.
"O tush!" he saith beneath his breath,
"A man can't have no fun!"
Then comes a disappointed wail
From every rock and tree.
"Good-by, good-by!" the grizzlies cry
And wring their handkerchee.
And a sad bob-cat exclaims, "O drat!
He never shot at me!"
So backward, backward from the hunt
The monarch lopes once more.
The Constitution rides behind
And the Big Stick rides before
(Which was a rule of precedent
In the reign of Theodore).
[Footnote 1: From "At the Sign of the Dollar," by Wallace Irwin.
Copyright, 1905, by Fox, Duffield & Co.]
MY PHILOSOFY
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be,
Much posted on philosofy;
But thare is times, when all alone,
I work out idees of my own.
And of these same thare is a few
I'd like to jest refer to you--
Pervidin' that you don't object
To listen clos't and rickollect.
I allus argy that a man
Who does about the best he can
Is plenty good enugh to suit
This lower mundane institute--
No matter ef his daily walk
Is subject fer his neghbor's talk,
And critic-minds of ev'ry whim
Jest all git up and go fer him!
I knowed a feller onc't that had
The yeller-janders mighty bad,--
And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet
Would stop and give him some receet
Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say
He kindo' thought they'd go away
Without no medicin', and boast
That he'd git well without one doste.
He kep' a-yellerin' on--and they
Perdictin' that he'd die some day
Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed,
The feller did, and lost his head,
And wundered in his mind a spell--
Then rallied, and, at last, got well;
But ev'ry friend that said he'd die
Went back on him eternally!
Its natchurl enugh, I guess,
When some gits more and some gits less,
Fer them-uns on the slimmest side
To claim it ain't a fare divide;
And I've knowed some to lay and wait,
And git up soon, and set up late,
To ketch some feller they could hate
Fer goin' at a faster gait.
The signs is bad when folks commence
A-findin' fault with Providence,
And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake
At ev'ry prancin' step they take.
No man is grate tel he can see
How less than little he would be
Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare
He hung his sign out anywhare.
My doctern is to lay aside
Contensions, and be satisfied:
Jest do your best, and praise er blame
That follers that, counts jest the same.
I've allus noticed grate success
Is mixed with troubles, more or less,
And it's the man who does the best
That gits more kicks than all the rest.
THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS
BY BRET HARTE
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;
And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific man to whale his fellow-man,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.
Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.
Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.
Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile and said he was at fault,
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault;
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.
Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.
Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.
For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.
And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
And I've told, in simple language, what I know about the row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
LOST CHORDS
BY EUGENE FIELD
One autumn eve, when soft the breeze
Came sweeping through the lattice wide,
I sat me down at organ side
And poured my soul upon the keys.
It was, perhaps by heaven's design,
That from my half unconscious touch,
There swept a passing chord of such
Sweet harmony, it seemed divine.
In one soft tone it seemed to say
The sweetest words I ever heard,
Then like a truant forest bird,
It soared from me to heaven away.
Last eve, I sat at window whence
I sought the spot where erst had stood
A cord--a cord of hick'ry wood,
Piled up against the back yard fence.
Four dollars cost me it that day,
Four dollars earned by sweat of brow,
Where was the cord of hick'ry now?
The thieves had gobbled it away!
Ah! who can ever count the cost,
Of treasures which were once our own,
Yet now, like childhood dreams are flown,
Those cords that are forever lost.
THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.
You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow--
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing--
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,
Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!
They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;
It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--Does he walk, er does he run?
Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?
Ort a mortul be complanin' when dumb animals rejoice?
Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
The June is here this mornin', and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.
THE MODERN FARMER[2]
BY JACK APPLETON
Observe the modern farmer! In the shade
He works his crops by letters-patent now:
Steam drives the reaper (which is union-made),
As in the spring it pushed the auto-plough;
A patent milker manages each cow;
Electric currents guide the garden spade,
And cattle, poultry, pigs through "process" wade
To quick perfection--Science shows them how.
But while machinery plants and reaps, he rests
Upon his porch, and listens to the quail
That pipe far off in yonder hand-made vale,
With muscles flabby and with strength gone stale,
Until, in desperation, he invests
In "Muscle-Building Motions Taught by Mail"!
[Footnote 2: Lippincott's Magazine.]
THE APOSTASY OF WILLIAM DODGE
BY STANLEY WATERLOO
Billy Dodge rose from a seat near the door, and gave the two ladies
chairs. Kate looked at him and smiled. The voice of the speaker seemed
far away as she thought of the boy and his enthusiasms. Of all the
earnest and sincere converts in the Lakeside House none could compare
with Master William Dodge, the only son of the mistress of the place. He
might be only eleven years old, he might be the most freckled boy in the
block, but he had received new light, and he had his convictions. He had
listened, and he had learned. He had learned that if you "hold a
thought" and carry it around with you on a piece of paper, and read it
from time to time throughout the day, it will bring you strength and
give you victory in all the affairs of life. He thought the matter over
much, for he had great need. He wanted help.
Of Master William Dodge, known as Billy, it may be said that in school
he had ordinarily more fights on his hands than any other boy of his age
and size, and it may be said, also, that as a rule, where the chances
were anywhere near even, he came out "on top." But doggedly brave as the
little freckled villain was, he had down in the bottom of his heart an
appreciation that some day Jim McMasters might lick him. Jim McMasters
was a boy only some six months older than Billy, of North of Ireland
blood--than which there is none better--a lank, scrawny, reddish-haired
youngster, freckled almost as profusely as Billy. Three times had they
met in noble battle, and three times had Billy been the conqueror, but
somehow the spirit of young McMasters did not seem particularly broken,
nor did he become a serf. Billy felt that the air was full of portent,
and he didn't like it.
It was just at this time that to Billy came the conviction that by
"holding the thought" he would have what he called "the bulge on Jim,"
and having the energy of his convictions, he promptly set to the work of
getting up texts which he could carry around in his pocket and which
would make him just invincible. He talked cautiously with Mandy Make as
to good watch-words, in no way revealing his designs, and from her
secured certain texts which she had herself unconsciously memorized from
many hearings of Jowler preachers. They were:
"Fight the good fight."
"Never give up."
"He never fails who dies in a good cause."
"Never say die."
For a time Billy was content with these quotations, written in a
school-boy hand upon brown paper, and carried in his left-hand trousers
pocket, but later he discovered that most of the scientists in the house
who "held a thought" themselves prepared their own little bit of
manuscript to be carried and read during the day, and that the text was
made to apply to their special needs. Billy, after much meditation,
concluded this was the thing for him, and with great travail he composed
and wrote out the new texts which he should carry constantly and which
should be his bulwark. Here they are:
"Ketch hold prompt and hang on."
"Strike from the shoulder."
"A kick for a blow, always bestow."
"When you get a good thing, keep it--keep it."
"When you get a black cat, skin it to the tail."