[Illustration:
They all stood round and laughed at him
]
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MODERN SHORT STORIES
A BOOK FOR HIGH SCHOOLS
EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES
BY
FREDERICK HOUK LAW, Ph.D.
Lecturer in English in New York University, and Head of
the Department of English in the Stuyvesant
High School, New York City
Publisher’s Logo
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1921
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Copyright, 1918, by
THE CENTURY CO.
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PREFACE
For many years high school teachers have wished for books of short
stories edited for high school use. They have known that most novels,
however interesting, are too long to hold attention, and that too few
novels can be read to give proper appreciation of form in narration. The
essay, as seen in _The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers_, and in Irving’s
_Sketch Book_, has been a poor substitute for the short story. High
school students have longed for action, for quickness, for life, for
climax, for something new and modern. Instead, they have had hundreds of
pages, long expositions, descriptions, leisurely treatment, and material
drawn from the past. They have read such material because they must, and
have turned, for relief, to short stories in the cheaper magazines.
The short story is to-day our most common literary product. It is read
by everyone. Not every boy or girl will read novels after leaving
school, but every boy or girl is certain to read short stories. It is
important in the high school to guide taste and appreciation in short
story reading, so that the reading of days when school life is over will
be healthful and upbuilding. This important duty has been recognized in
all the most recent suggestions for high school reading. The short story
is just beginning to take its important place in the high school course.
To make use of a book of short stories in high school work is to fall in
line with the most modern developments in the teaching of literature in
the high school.
Most collections of short stories that have been prepared, for school
use, up to the present, are more or less alike in drawing much of their
material from the past. Authors and content alike are dead. Here is a
collection that is entirely modern. The authors represented are among
the leading authors of the day, the stories are principally stories of
present-day life, the themes are themes of present-day thought. The
students who read this book will be more awake to the present, and will
be better citizens of to-day.
The great number of stories presented has given opportunity to
illustrate different types of short story writing. What could not be
done by the class study of many novels may be accomplished by the study
of the different stories in this book. The student will gain a knowledge
of types, of ways of construction, of style, that he could not gain
otherwise except by long-continued study. Class study of the short story
leads inevitably to keen appreciation of artistic effects in fiction.
The introductory material, biographies, explanations, and notes, have
been made purely for high school students, in order to help those who
may have read comparatively little, so that,—instead of being turned
aside forever by a dry-as-dust treatment,—they may wish to proceed
further in their study.
It is always pure delight to teach the short story to high school
classes, but it is even more delightful when the material is especially
fitted for high school work. This book, we hope, will aid both teachers
and pupils to come upon many happy hours in the class room.
The editor acknowledges, with thanks, the kindly permissions to use
copyright material that have been granted by the various authors and
publishers. Complete acknowledgments appear in the table of contents.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE iii
INTRODUCTION
I Our National Reading vii
II The Definition vii
III The Family Tree of the Short Story ix
IV A Good Story xi
V What Shall I Do with This Book? xiii
VI Where to Find Some Good Short xv
Stories
VII Some Interesting Short Stories xvi
VIII What to Read about the Short Story xix
THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA — 3
_Joel Chandler Harris_ From “Daddy
Jake and the Runaways.”
THE CROW-CHILD — _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 9
From “The Land of Pluck.”
THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL — _Lafcadio 17
Hearn_ From “Some Chinese Ghosts.”
THE TEN TRAILS — _Ernest Thompson Seton_ 22
From “Woodmyth and Fable.”
WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO — 23
_Count Leo Tolstoi_ From “Tales and
Parables.”
WOOD-LADIES — _Perceval Gibbon_ From 38
“Scribner’s Magazine.”
ON THE FEVER SHIP — _Richard Harding 53
Davis_ From “The Lion and the
Unicorn.”
A SOURCE OF IRRITATION — _Stacy 69
Aumonier_ From “The Century Magazine.”
MOTI GUJ—MUTINEER — _Rudyard Kipling_ 84
From “Plain Tales from the Hills.”
GULLIVER THE GREAT — _Walter A. Dyer_ 92
From “Gulliver the Great and Other
Stories.”
SONNY’S SCHOOLIN’ — _Ruth McEnery 105
Stuart_ From “Sonny, a Christmas
Guest.”
HER FIRST HORSE SHOW — _David Gray_ From 117
“Gallops 2.”
MY HUSBAND’S BOOK — _James Matthew 135
Barrie_ From “Two of Them.”
WAR — _Jack London_ From “The 141
Night-Born.”
THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS — _Morgan 147
Robertson_ From “Where Angels Fear to
Tread.”
A DILEMMA — _S. Weir Mitchell_ From 160
“Little Stories.”
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE — _A. Conan Doyle_ 166
From “Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.”
ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK — _Owen Johnson_ 192
From “Murder in Any Degree.”
A RETRIEVED REFORMATION — _O. Henry_ 212
From “Roads of Destiny.”
BROTHER LEO — _Phyllis Bottome_ From 221
“The Derelict and Other Stories.”
A FIGHT WITH DEATH — _Ian Maclaren_ 238
From “Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush.”
THE DÀN-NAN-RÒN — _Fiona Macleod_ From 248
“The Dominion of Dreams, Under the
Dark Star.”
NOTES AND COMMENTS 275
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS FOR CLASS USE 296
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
I
OUR NATIONAL READING
Is there anyone who has not read a short story? Is there anyone who has
not stopped at a news-stand to buy a short-story magazine? Is there
anyone who has not drawn a volume of short stories from the library, or
bought one at the book-store? Short stories are everywhere. There are
bed-time stories and fairy stories for little children; athletic
stories, adventure stories, and cheerful good-time stories for boys and
girls; humorous stories for those who like to laugh, and serious stories
for those who like to think. The World and his Wife still say, “Tell me
a story,” just as they did a thousand years ago. Our printing presses
have fairly roared an answer, and, at this moment, are busy printing
short stories. Even the newspapers, hardly able to find room for news
and for advertisements, often give space to re-printing short stories.
Our people are so fond of soda water that some one has laughingly called
it our national drink. Our people of every class, young and old, are so
fond of short stories that, with an equal degree of truth, we may call
the short story our national reading.
II
THE DEFINITION
The short story and the railroad are about equally old,—or, rather,
equally new, for both were perfected in distinctly recent times. The
railroad is the modern development of older ways of moving people and
goods from one place to another,—of litters, carts, and wagons. The
short story is the modern development of older ways of telling what
actually had happened, or might happen, or what might be imagined to
happen,—of tales, fables, anecdotes, and character studies. A great
number of men led the way to the locomotive, but it remained for the
nineteenth century, in the person of George Stephenson, to perfect it.
In like manner, many authors led the way to the short story of to-day,
but it remained for the nineteenth century, and particularly for Edgar
Allan Poe, to perfect it, and give it definition.
Before Poe’s time the short story had sometimes been written well, and
sometimes poorly. It had often been of too great length, wandering, and
without point. Poe wrote stories that are different from many earlier
stories in that they are all comparatively short. Another difference is
that Poe’s stories do not wander, producing now one effect, and now
another. Like a Roman road, every one goes straight to the point that
the maker had in mind at the beginning, and produces one single effect.
In the older stories the writers often turned from the principal subject
to introduce other matter. Poe excluded everything,—no matter how
interesting,—that did not lead directly to the effect he wished to
produce. The earlier stories often ended inconclusively. The reader felt
that more might be said, or that some other ending might be possible.
Poe tried to write so that the story should be absolutely complete, and
its ending the one necessary ending, with no other ending even to be
thought of. With it all, he tried to write so that,—no matter how
improbable the story really might be,—it should, at least, seem entirely
probable,—as real as though it had actually happened.
In general, Poe’s definition of the short story still holds true. There
are many kinds of stories to-day,—just as there are many kinds of
engines,—but the great fundamental principles hold true in both. We may
still define the modern short story as:
1. A narrative that is short enough to be read easily at a single
sitting;
2. That is written to produce a single impression on the mind of the
reader;
3. That excludes everything that does not lead to that single
impression;
4. That is complete and final in itself;
5. That has every indication of reality.
III
THE FAMILY TREE OF THE SHORT STORY
Everyone knows his father and mother. Very few, except those of noble
descent, know even the names of their great-great grandparents. As if
of the noblest, even of royal descent, the short story knows its
family tree. Its ancestry, like that of the American people, goes back
to Europe; draws strength from many races, and finally loses itself
somewhere in the prehistoric East,—in ancient Greece, India, or Egypt.
In the royal galleries kings look at pictures of their great
ancestors, and somewhat realize remote the past. Many of the ancestors
of the short story still live. They drank of the fountain of youth,
and are as strong and full of life as ever. Such immortal ancestors of
the short story of to-day are _The Story of Polyphemus_ (ninth
century, B.C.), _The Story of Pandora and her Box_ (ninth century,
B.C.), _The Book of Esther_ (second century, B.C.), _The City Mouse
and the Country Mouse_ (first century, B.C.), and _The Fables of Æsop_
(third century, A. D.). There are still existing many Egyptian short
stories, some of which are of the most remote antiquity, the _Tales of
the Magicians_ going back to 4000 B.C.
All the stories just named,—and many others equally familiar, drawn
from every ancient land,—affected the short story in English.
In the earliest days in England, in the fifth and in a few succeeding
centuries, the priests made collections of short stories from which
they could select illustrative material for the instruction of their
hearers. They drew many such stories from Latin, which, in turn, had
drawn them from still more ancient sources. Then, or a little later,
came folk stories, romantic stories of adventure, and other stories
for mere amusement.
In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the Italians became very
skilful in telling short stories, or “novelle.” Their “new” tales had
a lasting effect on short story telling in English.
Chaucer’s _Canterbury Tales_, in the fourteenth century, although in
verse, told in a most delightfully realistic way all kinds of stories
from all kinds of sources, particularly from the literatures of Italy
and of France. Chaucer told his stories so remarkably well, with such
humor and reality, that he is one of the great forces in the history
of the short story in English.
In the sixteenth century stories from France, Spain, and other lands,
also gave new incentives to the development of the short story in
English.
In the eighteenth century Addison’s _Spectator_ published very short
realistic narratives that often presented closely drawn character
studies. These are hardly to be called short stories, but they
influenced the short story form.
About the beginning of the nineteenth century, partly because of
German influence, it became the fashion to write stories of mystery
and horror, such as many of those by Irving, Hawthorne, and Poe.
Irving softened such stories by the touch of realistic humor;
Hawthorne gave them artistic form and nobility; Poe developed the full
value of the short story as a literary type, and pointed out the five
principles named above. The genius of these men led the way to the
modern short story.
Since their time the short story has moved on in its development,
including every kind of subject, tending to speak more and more
realistically of persons and places, but not losing its romantic
nature. Popular short stories of to-day are closely localized, and are
frequently quick, incisive, and emphatic.
to-day there are all kinds of short stories,—folk-lore tales, local
color stories, animal stories, humorous stories, stories of society,
of satire, of science, of character, of atmosphere, and scores of
other types, all virile, interesting, and profitable.
However well-dressed the modern short story may be in form and style,
it is worth little, unless, like its immortal ancestors, it has the
soul of goodness, truth, and beauty, and does something to reveal
nobility in the life of man.
IV
A GOOD STORY
With houses and stories it is much the same. As any one may build a
hut, so any one may compose a short story. In both cases the materials
may be common and cheap, and the construction careless. The one may
give shelter from the storm, and the other may hold attention for a
moment. Neither may be worth much. Somewhat better are the ordinary
house, and the ordinary story. Both are good, and fairly well
constructed, but the material is frequently commonplace, and the
general characteristics ordinary. To lift either a house or a story
out of the ordinary there must be fine material, artistic workmanship,
close and tender association with life,—something beautiful, or good,
or true. For the highest beauty there is need of something other than
obedience to rule in construction. Any architect can tell how to build
a beautiful house, but there is a fine beauty no mere architect can
give, a beauty that comes with years, or the close touch of human joys
and sorrows. It is the same with stories. We can not analyze the finer
quality, but we can, at least, tell some of the characteristics that
make short stories good.
As Poe said, the best short story is short enough to be read at a
sitting, so that it produces a single effect. It includes nothing that
does not lead to that effect, and it produces the effect as inevitably
as an arrow flies to its mark. The ending is necessary, the one
solution to which everything has moved from the beginning. In some way
the story is close to life, and is so realistically told that the
reader is drawn into its magic, and half believes it real.
It has a combination of plot and characters,—the nature of the
characters making the action, and the action affecting the persons
involved.
Without action of some sort there would, of course, be no story, but
the action,—usually built up of two opposing forces,—must be woven
into plot, that is, into a combination of events that lead to a
definite result, perhaps not known at first by the reader, but known
from the beginning by the author. The plot is somewhat simple, for the
story is too short to allow of much complexity. The action and the
characters are based on some experience, imaginary or otherwise, and
are honestly presented. In the best short story there is no pronounced
artificiality or posing.
There is always a certain harmony of content, so that plot and
characters work together naturally, every detail strictly in keeping
with the nature of the story.
The best story has an underlying idea,—not necessarily a moral,—a
thought or theme, very often concerned with ideals of conduct, that
can be expressed in a sentence.
Closely associated with everything is an indefinable something, that
rises from the story somewhat as the odor of sandalwood rises from an
oriental box, a sort of fragrance, or charm, a deeply appealing
characteristic that we call “atmosphere.”
Some stories may emphasize one point, and others another,—the plot,
the characters, the setting, the theme, or the atmosphere. As they
vary thus they reveal new lights, colors, and effects.
Still more do they vary in the charm that comes from apt choice of
words, and originality or beauty of phrasing.
Altogether, the best short story is truly an artistic product. The old
violins made in Cremona by Antonius Stradivarius have such perfect
harmony of material and form, and were made with such loving skill,
that they are vibrant with tenderly beautiful over-tones. So the best
short story is perfectly harmonious in every part, is made from chosen
material, is put together with sympathetic care, and is rich with the
over-tones of love, and laughter, and sorrow.
V
WHAT SHALL I DO WITH THIS BOOK?
Here is a book of more than twenty excellent short stories, not one of
which was written with the slightest thought that any one would ever
wish to study it as part of school work. Every story was written (1)
because its author had a story to tell, (2) because he had a definite
aim in telling the story, (3) because he felt that by certain methods
of form and style he could interest and delight his readers. The
magician opens his box, and holds the ring of spectators enthralled.
Here is no place for study. One must simply stand in the circle, and
look, and wonder, enjoy to his utmost, and applaud the entertainer
when he makes his final bow. But the spectator is always privileged to
look, not only idly but also as sharply as he pleases. So the reader
is entitled to notice in every case the three reasons for writing the
story.
The best way, then, to study this book is not to “study” it. It is not
a geography, nor a book of rules, nor any kind of book to be
memorized. It is a book to be read with an appreciative mind and a
sympathetic heart. Read the stories one by one in the order in which
they are printed. Read with the expectation of having a good
time,—that is what every author intended you to have. But keep your
eyes open. Make sure you really know the story the author is telling.
One way of testing your understanding is to tell the story in a very
few words, either orally or in writing, so that some friend, who has
not read it, may know the bare story, and know it clearly. If you find
yourself confused, or if you lose yourself in details and can not tell
the story briefly, you have not found the story the author has to
tell.
A second test is to tell in one sentence, or in one very short
paragraph, exactly what purpose the writer had in telling the story.
This will be more difficult but it will need little thought if you
really have understood and appreciated the story. Do not make the
mistake of thinking that a purpose must be a moral. A man who makes a
chair, a clown in a circus, an artist, a violinist, a boy playing a
game,—all have purposes in what they do, but the purpose is not
primarily moral. If you are puzzled in finding the purpose of the
story you should look the story over until its purpose flashes upon
you.
Thirdly, you should see if you can put into four or five unconnected
sentences, either oral or written, the methods of form and style by
which the author has interested you, and pleased you. These methods
will include means of awakening interest, means of presenting the
action, preparation for the climax, way of telling the climax, and way
of ending the story. They will also include choice of words, use of
language effects, and the means of producing atmosphere in the story.
If it happens that there are words that are not familiar, look them up
in the dictionary. You can not hope to understand a story until you
understand its language.
A good way to test your appreciation of story telling as an art,—and
to help you to appreciate even more keenly,—is to write short stories
of your own. Try, in every case, to imitate some method employed in a
particular story by a well-known author. Do not imitate too much. Be
original. Be yourself. If some of our best short story writers had
done nothing but imitate they would never have succeeded. Make your
short stories different from those by anyone else in your class. Write
your story in such a way that no one will draw pictures, or look out
of the window, or whisper to his neighbor, when it comes your turn to
read. There are three ways to bring that about:
1. Write about something that you, and your class, know about, and
like to hear about.
2. Think of a good, emphatic, or surprising climax, and then make a
plot that will lead to the climax with absolute certainty.
3. Tell your story in a way that will be different from the way
employed by any of your classmates.
In general, the stories in this book are to be read and enjoyed,
worked over, and talked about, in a simple manner, as one might
discuss stories at a reading club. To treat the stories in any other
way would be to make displeasing work out of what should be pure
pleasure.
In the back of the book is a small amount of biographical and
explanatory material, such as a friendly teacher might tell to his
class. There are also a few questions that will help you to
appreciate and enjoy the best effects in every story. The notes have
been given merely for reference, as if they were contained in a sort
of handy encyclopedia. They are not for hard, systematic study.
A class studying this book should forget that it is a class in
school, and resolve itself into a reading club, whose
object,—written in its constitution, in capital letters,—is pure
enjoyment of all that is best in short stories, and in short story
telling.
VI
WHERE TO FIND SOME GOOD SHORT STORIES
Baldwin, Charles American Short
Sears Stories
Cody, Sherwin The World’s Best
Short Stories
Dawson, W. J. and C. Great English Short
W. Story Writers
Esenwein, Joseph Short Story
Berg Masterpieces
Firkins, I. T. E. Index to Short
Stories
Hawthorne, Julian Library of the
World’s Best
Mystery and
Detective Stories
Jessup, Alexander Little French
Masterpieces
Jessup, A. and The Book of the
Canby, H. S. Short Story
Matthews, Brander The Short Story
Patten, William Great Short Stories
Patten, William Short Story Classics
Charles Scribner’s Stories by American
Sons Authors
Charles Scribner’s Stories by English
Sons Authors
Charles Scribner’s Stories by Foreign
Sons Authors
VII
SOME INTERESTING SHORT STORIES
R. H. Davis: The Bar Sinister; Washington Irving: The Rose of the
Alhambra; The Legend of Sleepy Hollow; Rip Van Winkle; The Three
Beautiful Princesses; Rudyard Kipling: Garm, A Hostage; The Arabian
Nights: Aladdin; Ali Baba; Annie Trumbull Slosson: Butterneggs; Ruth
McEnery Stuart: Sonny’s Diploma; Frederick Remington: How Order No.
6 Went Through; Mark Twain: The Jumping Frog; Henry Van Dyke: The
First Christmas Tree.
H. C. Andersen: The Ugly Duckling; Grimm Brothers: Little Briar
Rose; Rudyard Kipling: Mowgli’s Brothers; Toomai of the Elephants;
Her Majesty’s Servants; Æsop: The Country Mouse and the City Mouse;
Joel Chandler Harris: The Wonderful Tar Baby Story; How Black Snake
Caught the Wolf; Brother Mud Turtle’s Trickery; A French Tar Baby;
George Ade: The Preacher Who Flew His Kite.
Henry Van Dyke: The Other Wise Man; Nathaniel Hawthorne: Rapaccini’s
Daughter; David Swan; The Snow Image; The Great Stone Face; Lady
Eleanor’s Mantle; The Minister’s Black Veil; The Birth Mark; E. A.
Poe: William Wilson; Rudyard Kipling: The Ship that Found Herself;
Henry James: The Madonna of the Future; R. L. Stevenson: Will o’ the
Mill; Joseph Addison: The Vision of Mirza.
Howard Pyle: The Ruby of Kishmore; Rudyard Kipling: The Man Who
Would Be King; Drums of the Fore and Aft; Tiger, Tiger; Kaa’s
Hunting; R. H. Davis: Gallegher; Van Bibber’s Burglar; R. L.
Stevenson: The Sire de Maletroit’s Door; Joseph Conrad: Youth; E. A.
Poe: The Pit and the Pendulum; F. R. Stockton: My Terminal Moraine;
Jesse Lynch Williams: The Stolen Story.
Henry Van Dyke: Messengers at the Window; M. R. S. Andrews: A
Messenger; Bulwer Lytton: The Haunted and the Haunters; FitzJames
O’Brien: The Diamond Lens; What Was It?; M. E. Wilkins Freeman:
Shadows on the Wall; R. W. Chambers: The Tree of Heaven; Marion
Crawford: The Upper Berth; H. W. Jacobs: The Monkey’s Paw; Rudyard
Kipling: At the End of the Passage; The Brushwood Boy; They; Prosper
Merimee: The Venus of Ille.
E. A. Poe: The Gold Bug; The Purloined Letter; Conan Doyle: The
Dancing Men; the Speckled Band; Henry Van Dyke: The Night Call;
FitzJames O’Brien: The Golden Ingot; Anton Chekhoff: The Safety
Match; R. L. Stevenson: The Pavillion on the Links; Egerton Castle:
The Baron’s Quarry; Wilkie Collins: The Dream Woman; Rudyard
Kipling: The Sending of Dana Da.
G. B. McCutcheon: The Day of the Dog; H. C. Bunner: The Love Letters
of Smith; A Sisterly Scheme; O. Henry: The Ransom of Red Chief;
While the Auto Waits; Samuel Minturn Peck: The Trouble at St. James;
T. B. Aldrich: Goliath; R. M. S. Andrews: A Good Samaritan; The
Grandfathers of Bob; E. P. Butler: Pigs is Pigs; Josephine Dodge
Daskam: Edgar, the Choir Boy Uncelestial; T. A. Janvier: The Passing
of Thomas; Myra Kelly: A Christmas Present for a Lady; Ruth McEnery
Stuart: The Woman’s Exchange of Simpkinsville.
F. Hopkinson Smith: The Veiled Lady of Stamboul; Stuart Edward
White: The Life of the Winds of Heaven; T. B. Aldrich: Père
Antoine’s Date Palm; Booth Tarkington: Monsieur Beaucaire; R. H.
Davis: The Princess Aline; Alice Brown: A Map of the Country; M. R.
S. Andrews: The Bishop’s Silence; Honoré de Balzac: A Passion in the
Desert; Nathaniel Hawthorne: The White Old Maid.
Irvin Cobb: Up Clay Street; M. E. Wilkins Freeman: The Revolt of
Mother; A Humble Romance; Prosper Merimee: Mateo Falcone; Alphonse
Daudet: The Last Class; G. W. Cable: Belles Demoiselles Plantation;
Bret Harte: The Luck of Roaring Camp; Ruth McEnery Stuart: The
Widder Johnsing; Owen Wister: Specimen Jones; T. A. Janvier: The
Sage Brush Hen.
T. B. Aldrich: Marjory Daw; Mademoiselle Olimpe Zabriskie; Miss
Mehetabel’s Son; O. Henry: The Gift of the Magi; The Cop and the
Anthem; The Whirligig of Life; Guy de Maupassant: The Diamond
Necklace; F. R. Stockton: The Lady or the Tiger; John Fox, Jr.: The
Purple Rhododendron; R. W. Chambers: A Young Man in a Hurry; E. A.
Poe: Three Sundays in a Week; Ambrose Bierce: The Man and the Snake;
FitzJames O’Brien: The Bohemian; Frank Norris: A Deal in Wheat.
Mark Twain: A Dog’s Tale; W. D. Howells: Editha; E. T. Seton: The
Biography of a Grizzly; Brander Matthews: The Story of a Story;
Björnstjerne Björnson: The Father; Nathaniel Hawthorne: The
Ambitious Guest; Jacob A. Riis: The Burgomaster’s Christmas; Charles
Dickens: A Christmas Carol; Henry Van Dyke: The Mansion; E. E. Hale:
The Man Without a Country.
M. R. S. Andrews: The Perfect Tribute; François Coppee: The
Substitute; J. B. Connolly: Sonny Boy’s People; S. O. Jewett: The
Queen’s Twin; James Lane Allen: King Solomon of Kentucky; Bret
Harte: Tennessee’s Partner; Jack London: The God of His Fathers;
John Galsworthy: Quality.
Thomas Nelson Page: Marse Chan; Meh Lady; R. L. Stevenson: The Merry
Men; E. A. Poe: The Masque of the Red Death; The Fall of the House
of Usher; Irvin Cobb: White and Black; F. J. Stimson: Mrs. Knollys;
John Fox, Jr.: Christmas Eve on Lonesome; H. G. Dwight: In the
Pasha’s Garden; Honoré de Balzac: An Episode Under the Terror; Jack
London: Thanksgiving on Slav Creek; Charles Lamb: Dream Children; H.
C. Brunner: Our Aromatic Uncle.
Bret Harte: The Outcasts of Poker Flat; R. L. Stevenson: Markheim;
Guy de Maupassant: A Piece of String; A Coward; E. A. Poe: The Cask
of Amontillado; Edith Wharton: The Bolted Door; A Journey; Henry Van
Dyke: A Lover of Music; S. R. Crockett: Elsie’s Dance for Her Life;
Jack London: The White Silence.
VIII
WHAT TO READ ABOUT THE SHORT STORY
Albright, Evelyn May The Short Story, its
Principles and
Structure
Barrett, Charles R. Short Story Writing
Buck, Gertrude, and A Course in Narrative
Morris, Elizabeth Writing
Woodbridge
Canby, Henry Seidel The Short Story in
English
Cody, Sherwin Story Writing and
Journalism
Dye, Charity The Story Teller’s Art
Esenwein, Joseph Berg Writing the Short Story
Hamilton, Clayton Materials and Methods of
Fiction
Matthews, Brander The Philosophy of the
Short Story
Perry, Bliss A Study of Prose Fiction
Pitkin, Walter B. Short Story Writing
Wells, Carolyn The Technique of the
Mystery Story
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MODERN SHORT STORIES
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
MODERN SHORT STORY
THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA[1]
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
Footnote 1:
It may be of interest to those who approach Folk-Lore stories from
the scientific side, to know that this story was told to one of my
little boys three years ago by a negro named John Holder. I have
since found a variant (or perhaps the original) in Theal’s “Kaffir
Folk-Lore.”
Joel Chandler Harris, 1889.
“I got one tale on my min’,” said Uncle Remus to the little boy one
night. “I got one tale on my min’ dat I ain’t ne’er tell you; I
dunner how come; I speck it des kaze I git mixt up in my idees. Deze
is busy times, mon, en de mo’ you does de mo’ you hatter do, en w’en
dat de case, it ain’t ter be ’spected dat one ole broke-down nigger
kin ’member ’bout eve’ything.”
“What is the story, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked.
“Well, honey,” said the old man, wiping his spectacles, “hit sorter
run dis away: One time dey wuz a man w’at had a mighty likely
daughter.”
“Was he a white man or a black man?” the little boy asked.
“I ’clar’ ter gracious, honey!” exclaimed the old man, “you er
pushin’ me mos’ too close. Fer all I kin tell you, de man mout er
bin ez w’ite ez de driven snow, er he mout er bin de blackes’
Affi’kin er de whole kit en bilin’. I’m des tellin’ you de tale, en
you kin take en take de man en whitewash ’im, or you kin black ’im
up des ez you please. Dat’s de way I looks at it.
“Well, one time dey wuz a man, en dish yer man he had a mighty
likely daughter. She wuz so purty dat she had mo’ beaus dan w’at you
got fingers en toes. But de gal daddy, he got his spishuns ’bout all
un um, en he won’t let um come ’roun’ de house. But dey kep’ on
pesterin’ ’im so, dat bimeby he give word out dat de man w’at kin
clear up six acres er lan’ en roll up de logs, en pile up de bresh
in one day, dat man kin marry his daughter.
“In co’se, dis look like it unpossible, en all de beaus drap off
’ceppin’ one, en he wuz a great big strappin’ chap w’at look like he
kin knock a steer down. Dis chap he wuz name Simon, en de gal, she
wuz name Susanna. Simon, he love Susanna, en Susanna, she love
Simon, en dar it went.
“Well, sir, Simon, he went ter de gal daddy, he did, en he say dat
ef anybody kin clear up dat lan’, he de one kin do it, least’ways he
say he gwine try mighty hard. De ole man, he grin en rub his han’s
terge’er, he did, en tole Simon ter start in in de mornin’. Susanna,
she makes out she wuz fixin’ sumpin in de cubberd, but she tuck ’n
kiss ’er han’ at Simon, en nod ’er head. Dis all Simon want, en he
went out er dar des ez happy ez a jay-bird atter he done robbed a
sparrer-nes’.
“Now, den,” Uncle Remus continued, settling himself more comfortably
in his chair, “dish yer man wuz a witch.”
“Why, I thought a witch was a woman,” said the little boy.
The old man frowned and looked into the fire.
“Well, sir,” he remarked with some emphasis, “ef you er gwine ter
tu’n de man into a ’oman, den dey won’t be no tale, kaze dey’s
bleege ter be a man right dar whar I put dis un. Hit’s des like I
tole you ’bout de color er de man. Black ’im er whitewash ’im des ez
you please, en ef you want ter put a frock on ’im ter boot, hit
ain’t none er my business; but I’m gwine ter ’low he wuz a man ef
it’s de las’ ac’.”
The little boy remained silent, and Uncle Remus went on:
“Now, den, dish yer man was a witch. He could cunjer folks, mo’
’speshually dem folks w’at ain’t got no rabbit foot. He bin at his
cunjerments so long, dat Susanna done learn mos’ all his tricks. So
de nex’ mornin’ w’en Simon come by de house fer ter borry de ax,
Susanna she run en got it fer ’im. She got it, she did, en den she
sprinkles some black san’ on it, en say, ‘Ax, cut; cut, ax.’ Den she
rub ’er ha’r ’cross it, en give it ter Simon. He tuck de ax, he did,
en den Susanna say:
“‘Go down by de branch, git sev’n w’ite pebbles, put um in dis
little cloth bag, en whenever you want the ax ter cut, shake um up.’
“Simon, he went off in de woods, en started in ter clearin’ up de
six acres. Well, sir, dem pebbles en dat ax, dey done de work—dey
did dat. Simon could ’a’ bin done by de time de dinner-horn blowed,
but he hung back kaze he ain’t want de man fer ter know dat he doin’
it by cunjerments.
“W’en he shuck de pebbles de ax ’ud cut, en de trees ’ud fall, en de
lim’s ’ud drap off, en de logs ’ud roll up terge’er, en de bresh ’ud
pile itself up. Hit went on dis away twel by de time it wuz two
hours b’ sun, de whole six acres wuz done cleaned up.
“’Bout dat time de man come ’roun’, he did, fer ter see how de work
gittin’ on, en, mon! he wuz ’stonish’. He ain’t know w’at ter do er
say. He ain’t want ter give up his daughter, en yit he ain’t know
how ter git out ’n it. He walk ’roun’ en ’roun’, en study, en study,
en study how he gwine rue de bargain. At las’ he walk up ter Simon,
he did, en he say:
“‘Look like you sort er forehanded wid your work.’
“Simon, he ’low: ‘Yasser, w’en I starts in on a job I’m mighty
restless twel I gits it done. Some er dis timber is rough en tough,
but I bin had wuss jobs dan dis in my time.’
“De man say ter hisse’f: ‘W’at kind er folks is dis chap?’
Den he say out loud: ‘Well, sence you er so spry, dey’s two mo’
acres ’cross de branch dar. Ef you’ll clear dem up ’fo’ supper you
kin come up ter de house en git de gal.’
“Simon sorter scratch his head, kaze he dunner whedder de pebbles
gwine ter hol’ out, yit he put on a bol’ front en he tell de man dat
he’ll go ’cross dar en clean up de two acres soon ez he res’ a
little.
“De man he went off home, en soon’s he git out er sight, Simon went
’cross de branch en shook de pebbles at de two acres er woods, en ’t
want no time skacely ’fo’ de trees wuz all cut down en pile up.
“De man, he went home, he did, en call up Susanna, en say:
“‘Daughter, dat man look like he gwine git you, sho’.’
“Susanna, she hang ’er head, en look like she fretted, en den she
say she don’t keer nuthin’ fer Simon, nohow.”
“Why, I thought she wanted to marry him,” said the little boy.
“Well, honey, w’en you git growed up, en git whiskers on yo’ chin,
en den atter de whiskers git gray like mine, you’ll fin’ out sump’n
’n’er ’bout de wimmin folks. Dey ain’t ne’er say ’zackly w’at dey
mean, none er um, mo’ ’speshually w’en dey er gwine on ’bout gittin’
married.
“Now, dar wuz dat gal Susanna what I’m a-tellin’ you ’bout. She
mighty nigh ’stracted ’bout Simon, en yit she make ’er daddy b’lieve
dat she ’spize ’im. I ain’t blamin’ Susanna,” Uncle Remus went on
with a judicial air, “kase she know dat ’er daddy wuz a witch en a
mighty mean one in de bargain.
“Well, atter Susanna done make ’er daddy b’lieve dat she ain’t
keerin’ nothin’ ’t all ’bout Simon, he ’gun ter set his traps en fix
his tricks. He up ’n tell Susanna dat atter ’er en Simon git married
dey mus’ go upsta’rs in de front room, en den he tell ’er dat she
mus’ make Simon go ter bed fus’. Den de man went upsta’rs en tuck ’n
tuck all de slats out’n de bedstid ceppin one at de head en one at
de foot. Atter dat he tuck ’n put some foot-valances ’roun’ de
bottom er de bed—des like dem w’at you bin see on yo’ gran’ma bed.
Den he tuck ’n sawed out de floor und’ de bed, en dar wuz de trap
all ready.
“Well, sir, Simon come up ter de house, en de man make like he
mighty glad fer ter see ’im, but Susanna, she look like she mighty
shy. No matter ’bout dat; atter supper Simon en Susanna got married.
Hit ain’t in de tale wedder dey sont fer a preacher er wedder dey
wuz a squire browsin’ ’roun’ in de neighborhoods, but dey had cake
wid reezins in it, en some er dish yer silly-bug w’at got mo’ foam
in it dan dey is dram, en dey had a mighty happy time.
[Illustration:
Simon shakes the pebbles
]
“W’en bedtime come, Simon en Susanna went upsta’rs, en w’en dey got
in de room, Susanna kotch ’im by de han’, en helt up her finger. Den
she whisper en tell ’im dat ef dey don’t run away fum dar dey bofe
gwine ter be kilt. Simon ax ’er how come, en she say dat ’er daddy
want ter kill ’im kase he sech a nice man. Dis make Simon grin; yit
he wuz sorter restless ’bout gittin’ ’way fum dar. But Susanna, she
say wait. She say:
“‘Pick up yo’ hat en button up yo’ coat. Now, den, take dat stick er
wood dar en hol’ it ’bove yo’ head.’
“W’iles he stan’in’ dar, Susanna got a hen egg out’n a basket, den
she got a meal-bag, en a skillet. She ’low:
“‘Now, den, drap de wood on de bed.’
“Simon done des like she say, en time de wood struck de bed de tick
en de mattruss went a-tumblin’ thoo de floor. Den Susanna tuck Simon
by de han’ en dey run out de back way ez hard ez dey kin go.
“De man, he wuz down dar waitin’ fer de bed ter drap. He had a big
long knife in he han’, en time de bed drapped, he lit on it, he did,
en stobbed it scan’lous. He des natchully ripped de tick up, en w’en
he look, bless gracious, dey ain’t no Simon dar. I lay dat man wuz
mad den. He snorted ’roun’ dar twel blue smoke come out’n his nose,
en his eye look red like varmint eye in de dark. Den he run upsta’rs
en dey ain’t no Simon dar, en nudder wuz dey any Susanna.
“Gentermens! den he git madder. He rush out, he did, en look ’roun’,
en ’way off yander he see Simon en Susanna des a-runnin’, en
a-holdin’ one nudder’s han’.”
“Why, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, “I thought you said it was
night?”
“Dat w’at I said, honey, en I’ll stan’ by it. Yit, how many times
dis blessed night is I got ter tell you dat de man wuz a witch? En
bein’ a witch, co’se he kin see in de dark.
“Well, dish yer witch-man, he look off en he see Simon en Susanna
runnin’ ez hard ez dey kin. He put out atter um, he did, wid his
knife in his han’, an’ he kep’ on a gainin’ on um. Bimeby, he got so
close dat Susanna say ter Simon:
“‘Fling down yo’ coat.’
“Time de coat tech de groun’, a big thick woods sprung up whar it
fell. But de man, he cut his way thoo it wid de knife, en kep’ on
a-pursuin’ atter um.
“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de egg on de groun’, en
time it fell a big fog riz up fum de groun’, en a little mo’ en de
man would a got los’. But atter so long a time fog got blowed away
by de win’, en de man kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um.
“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de meal-sack, en a great
big pon’ er water kivered de groun’ whar it fell. De man wuz in sech
a big hurry dat he tried ter drink it dry, but he ain’t kin do dis,
so he sot on de bank en blow’d on de water wid he hot breff, en
atter so long a time de water made hits disappearance, en den he
kep’ on atter um.
“Simon en Susanna wuz des a-runnin’, but run ez dey would, de man
kep’ a-gainin’ on um, en he got so close dat Susanna drapped de
skillet. Den a big bank er darkness fell down, en de man ain’t know
which away ter go. But atter so long a time de darkness lif’ up, en
de man kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um. Mon, he made up fer los’ time,
en he got so close dat Susanna say ter Simon:
“‘Drap a pebble.’
“Time Simon do dis a high hill riz up, but de man clum it en kep’ on
atter um. Den Susanna say ter Simon:
“‘Drap nudder pebble.’
“Time Simon drap de pebble, a high mountain growed up, but de man
crawled up it en kep’ on atter um. Den Susanna say:
“‘Drap de bigges’ pebble.’
“No sooner is he drap it dan a big rock wall riz up, en hit wuz so
high dat de witch-man can’t git over. He run up en down, but he
can’t find no end, en den, atter so long a time, he turn ’roun’ en
go home.
“On de yuther side er dis high wall, Susanna tuck Simon by de han’,
en say:
“‘Now we kin res’.’
“En I reckon,” said the old man slyly, “dat we all better res’.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE CROW-CHILD
By MARY MAPES DODGE
MIDWAY between a certain blue lake and a deep forest there once
stood a cottage, called by its owner “The Rookery.”
The forest shut out the sunlight and scowled upon the ground,
breaking with shadows every ray that fell, until only a few little
pieces lay scattered about. But the broad lake invited all the rays
to come and rest upon her, so that sometimes she shone from shore to
shore, and the sun winked and blinked above her, as though dazzled
by his own reflection. The cottage, which was very small, had sunny
windows and dark windows. Only from the roof could you see the
mountains beyond, where the light crept up in the morning and down
in the evening, turning all the brooks into living silver as it
passed.
But something brighter than sunshine used often to look from the
cottage into the forest, and something even more gloomy than shadows
often glowered from its windows upon the sunny lake. One was the
face of little Ruky Lynn; and the other was his sister’s when she
felt angry or ill-tempered.
They were orphans, Cora and Ruky, living alone in the cottage with
an old uncle. Cora—or “Cor,” as Ruky called her—was nearly sixteen
years old, but her brother had seen the forest turn yellow only four
times. She was, therefore, almost mother and sister in one. The
little fellow was her companion night and day. Together they ate and
slept, and—when Cora was not at work in the cottage—together they
rambled in the wood, or floated in their little skiff upon the lake.
Ruky had bright, dark eyes, and the glossy blackness of his hair
made his cheeks look even rosier than they were. He had funny ways
for a boy, Cora thought. The quick, bird-like jerks of his
raven-black head, his stately baby gait, and his habit of pecking at
his food, as she called it, often made his sister laugh. Young as he
was, the little fellow had learned to mount to the top of a
low-branching tree near the cottage, though he could not always get
down alone. Sometimes when, perched in the thick foliage, he would
scream, “Cor! Cor! Come, help me down!” his sister would answer, as
she ran out laughing, “Yes, little Crow! I’m coming.”
Perhaps it was because he reminded her of a crow that Cora called
him her little bird. This was when she was good-natured and willing
to let him see how much she loved him. But in her cloudy moments, as
the uncle called them, Cora was another girl. Everything seemed ugly
to her, or out of tune. Even Ruky was a trial; and, instead of
giving him a kind word, she would scold and grumble until he would
steal from the cottage door, and, jumping lightly from the
door-step, seek the shelter of his tree. Once safely perched among
its branches he knew she would finish her work, forget her
ill-humor, and be quite ready, when he cried “Cor! Cor!” to come
from the cottage with a cheery, “Yes, little Crow! I’m coming! I’m
coming!”
No one could help loving Ruky, with his quick, affectionate ways;
and it seemed that Ruky, in turn, could not help loving every person
and thing around him. He loved his silent old uncle, the bright
lake, the cool forest, and even his little china cup with red
berries painted upon it. But more than all, Ruky loved his
golden-haired sister, and the great dog, who would plunge into the
lake at the mere pointing of his chubby little finger. In fact, that
finger and the commanding baby voice were “law” to Nep at any time.
Nep and Ruky often talked together, and though one used barks and
the other words, there was a perfect understanding between them. Woe
to the straggler that dared to rouse Nep’s wrath, and woe to the
bird or rabbit that ventured too near!—those great teeth snapped at
their prey without even the warning of a growl. But Ruky could
safely pull Nep’s ears or his tail, or climb his great shaggy back,
or even snatch away the untasted bone. Still, as I said before,
every one loved the child; so, of course, Nep was no exception.
One day Ruky’s “Cor! Cor!” had sounded oftener than usual. His rosy
face had bent saucily to kiss Cora’s upturned forehead, as she
raised her arms to lift him from the tree; but the sparkle in his
dark eyes had seemed to kindle so much mischief in him that his
sister’s patience became fairly exhausted.
“Has Cor nothing to do but to wait upon _you_?” she cried, “and
nothing to listen to but your noise and your racket? You shall go to
bed early to-day, and then I shall have some peace.”
“No, no, Cor. Please let Ruky wait till the stars come. Ruky wants
to see the stars.”
“Hush! Ruky is bad. He shall have a whipping when Uncle comes back
from town.”
Nep growled.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Ruky, jerking his head saucily from side to side;
“Nep says ‘No!’”
Nep was shut out of the cottage for his pains, and poor Ruky was
undressed, with many a hasty jerk and pull.
“You hurt, Cor!” he said, plaintively. “I’m going to take off my
shoes my own self.”
“No, you’re not,” cried Cora, almost shaking him; and when he cried
she called him naughty, and said if he did not stop he should have
no supper. This made him cry all the more, and Cora, feeling in her
angry mood that he deserved severe punishment, threw away his supper
and put him to bed. Then all that could be heard were Ruky’s low
sobs and the snappish clicks of Cora’s needles, as she sat knitting,
with her back to him.
He could not sleep, for his eyelids were scalded with tears, and his
plaintive “Cor! Cor!” had reached his sister’s ears in vain. She
never once looked up from those gleaming knitting-needles, nor even
gave him his good-night kiss.
It grew late. The uncle did not return. At last Cora, sulky and
weary, locked the cottage door, blew out her candle, and lay down
beside her brother.
The poor little fellow tried to win a forgiving word, but she was
too ill-natured to grant it. In vain he whispered, “Cor, Cor!” He
even touched her hand over and over again with his lips, hoping she
would turn toward him, and, with a loving kiss, murmur, as usual,
“Good night, little bird.”
Instead of this, she jerked her arm angrily away, saying:
“Oh, stop your pecking and go to sleep! I wish you were a crow in
earnest, and then I’d have some peace.”
After this, Ruky was silent. His heart drooped within him as he
wondered what this “peace” was that his sister wished for so often,
and why he must go away before it could come to her.
Soon, Cora, who had rejoiced in the sudden calm, heard a strange
fluttering. In an instant she saw by the starlight a dark object
circle once or twice in the air above her, then dart suddenly
through the open window.
Astonished that Ruky had not shouted with delight at the strange
visitor, or else clung to her neck in fear, she turned to see if he
had fallen asleep.
No wonder that she started up, horror-stricken,—Ruky was not there!
His empty place was still warm; perhaps he had slid softly from the
bed. With trembling haste she lighted the candle, and peered into
every corner. The boy was not to be found!
Then those fearful words rang in her ears:
“_I wish you were a crow in earnest!_”
Cora rushed to the door, and, with straining gaze, looked out into
the still night.
“Ruky! Ruky!” she screamed.
There was a slight stir in the low-growing tree.
“Ruky, darling, come back!”
“Caw, caw!” answered a harsh voice from the tree. Something black
seemed to spin out of it, and then, in great sweeping circles,
sailed upward, until finally it settled upon one of the loftiest
trees in the forest.
“Caw, caw!” it screamed, fiercely.
The girl shuddered, but, with outstretched arms, cried out:
“Oh, Ruky, if it is _you_, come back to poor Cor!”
“Caw, caw!” mocked hundreds of voices, as a shadow like a
thunder-cloud rose in the air. It was an immense flock of crows. She
could distinguish them plainly in the starlight, circling higher and
higher, then lower and lower, until, with their harsh “Caw, caw!”
they sailed far off into the night.
“Oh, Ruky, answer me!” she cried.