about the twins' devotion: one could not weather a headache without the
other. Mr. White and Mr. Morton exchanged glances, and showed interest
in the topic, as if they were on the track of some new sociological
fact.
Later in the evening, the twins, their spirits restored, stole to the
top of the stairs and peered down at the whirling couples, exultant not
to be among them. Mr. White was standing just below, and he glanced up,
as if he might have been listening. His face brightened.
"May I come up?" he signaled, and mounted two steps at a time, keen
interest in his thin, intellectual face.
"Is it really headache, or is it revolution?" he asked without preface.
"Morton and I have been longing to know, all the evening."
"Revolution," said the twins.
"How very interesting! Do you know, we came to-night just to see if you
would be there. You--you staggered us, the other evening. We were glad
when you didn't appear--if you won't misunderstand. It is so unexpected,
in this environment. I shall be curious to see how far you can carry it
out." He was leaning against the banister, looking at them as if they
were abstract propositions rather than young girls, and they felt
unwontedly at ease.
"To the very end," Dora asserted. "We begin teaching Monday, and--and we
have to find a place to board." Her color rose a little, but she smiled.
"That _is_ plucky," he commented. "We can help you there; I know a
number of places. When do you want to move?"
"To-morrow," they answered in unison.
He consulted an engagement-book, reflected a few moments, then made a
note.
"Morton or I will call for you to-morrow at three," he announced with
business-like brevity. "I think I know just the place, but we will give
you a choice. If you really wish to move in at once, you could have your
things packed, ready to be sent for."
"Oh, we do!" said Cora. He glanced meditatively at their fine and
glowing faces.
"Of course you won't be comfortable, luxurious, as you are here," he
warned them, with a nod toward the great paneled hall. Mrs. Baldwin
passed the drawing-room door below with the stately tread of a reviewing
officer.
"Oh, we don't care!" they exclaimed eagerly.
The next day their mother treated the twins as if they were not. She
spoke no word to them and did not seem to hear their husky little
efforts at reconciliation. They found it hard to remember persistently
that they were revolutionists rather than children in disgrace. She was
unapproachable in her own room when Mr. White and Mr. Morton came for
them.
"Well, we can't help it," they said sadly as they locked their two
trunks and went down the stairs.
Three hours later the twins had entered a new world and were rapturously
making an omelet in a kitchen that had begun life as a closet, while Mr.
Morton put up shelves and hooks and Mr. White tacked green burlap over
gloomy wall-paper. Groceries and kitchen utensils and amusing make-shift
furniture kept arriving in exciting profusion. They had not dreamed that
there was such happiness in the world.
"If only mother will forgive us, it will be simply perfect!" they told
each other when they settled down for the night in their hard little
cots. They said that many times in the days that followed. The utter joy
of work and freedom and simplicity had no other blemish.
For five weeks Mrs. Baldwin remained obdurate. Then, one Sunday
afternoon, she appeared, cold, critical, resentful still; lifted her
eyebrows at the devices of their light housekeeping; looked disgusted
when they pointed out from the window the little cafe where they
sometimes dined; and offered to consent to their social retirement if
they would give up the teaching and come home. The twins were troubled
and apologetic, but inflexible. They had found the life they were meant
for; they could not give it up. If she knew how happy they were!
"How, with your bringing up, you can enjoy this!" she marveled. "It
isn't respectable--eating in nasty little holes alone at night!"
"But it is a nice, clean place, and Mr. White and Mr. Morton are nearly
always with us," Dora began, then broke off at an expression of pleased
enlightenment that flashed across her mother's face. "They are just very
good friends," she explained gravely; "they don't take us as girls at
all--that is why we have such nice times with them. We are simply
comrades, and interested in the same books and problems."
"And they bother about us chiefly because we are a sort of sociological
demonstration to them," Cora added. "They like experiments of every
kind."
"Ah, yes, I understand," assented Mrs. Baldwin. "Well, you certainly are
fixed up very nicely here. If you want anything from home, let me know.
After all, it is a piquant little adventure. If you are happy in it, I
suppose I ought not to complain."
She was all complacence and compliment the rest of her visit. When she
went away, the girls glanced uneasily at each other.
"She took a wrong idea in her head," said Dora. "I do hope we undeceived
her. It would be hard for her to understand how wholly mental and
impersonal our friendship is with those two."
"Well, she will see in time, when nothing comes of it," said Cora
confidently. "That's their ring, now. Oh, Dora, isn't our life nice!"
Mrs. Baldwin, passing down the shabby front steps, might have seen the
two men approaching, one with an armful of books and the other with a
potted plant; but she apparently did not recognize them, for she stepped
into her carriage without a sign. The visit seemed to have left a
pleasant memory with her, however; her bland serenity, as she drove
away, was not unlike that of the cat which has just swallowed the
canary.
FALL STYLES IN FACES[5]
BY WALLACE IRWIN
Faces this Fall will lead the styles
More than in former years
With something very neat in smiles
Well trimmed with eyes and ears.
The Gayer Set, so rumor hints,
Will have their noses made
In all the famous Highball Tints--
A bright carnation shade.
For morning wear in club and lobby,
The Dark Brown Taste will be the hobby.
In Wall Street they will wear a gaze
To match the paving-stones.
(This kind, Miss Ida Tarbell says,
John Rockefeller owns.)
Loud mouths, sharp glances, furtive looks
Will be displayed upon
The faces of the best-groomed crooks
Convened in Washington.
Among the Saints of doubtful morals
Some will wear halos, others laurels.
Checkered careers will be displayed
On faces neatly lined,
And vanity will still parade
In smirks--the cheaper kind.
Chins will appear in Utah's zone
Adorned with lace-like frizzes,
And something striking will be shown
In union-labor phizzes.
The gentry who have done the races
Show something new in Poker Faces.
Cheek will supplant Stiff Upper Lips
And take the place of Chin;
The waiters will wear ostrich tips
When tipping days begin.
The Wilhelm Moustache, curled with scorn,
Will show the jaw beneath,
And the Roosevelt Smile will still be worn
Cut wide around the teeth.
If Frenzied Finance waxes stronger
Stocks will be "short" and faces longer.
But if you have a well-made face
That's durable and firm,
Its features you need not replace--
'Twill wear another term.
Two eyes, a nose, a pair of ears,
A chin that's clean and strong
Will serve their owner many years
And never go far wrong.
But if your face is shoddy, Brother,
Run to the store and buy another!
FOOTNOTES:
[5] From "At the Sign of the Dollar," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1905,
by Fox, Duffield & Co.
HAD A SET OF DOUBLE TEETH
BY HOLMAN F. DAY
Oh, listen while I tell you a truthful little tale
Of a man whose teeth were double all the solid way around;
He could jest as slick as preachin' bite in two a shingle-nail,
Or squonch a molded bullet, sah, and ev'ry tooth was sound.
I've seen him lift a keg of pork, a-bitin' on the chine,
And he'd clench a rope and hang there like a puppy to a root;
And a feller he could pull and twitch and yank up on the line,
But he couldn't do no business with that double-toothed galoot.
He was luggin' up some shingles,--bunch, sah, underneath each arm,--
The time that he was shinglin' of the Baptist meetin'-house;
The ladder cracked and buckled, but he didn't think no harm,
When all at once she busted, and he started down kersouse.
His head, sah, when she busted, it was jest abreast the eaves;
And he nipped, sah, quicker 'n lightnin', and he gripped there with
his teeth,
And he never dropped the shingles, but he hung to both the sheaves,
Though the solid ground was suttenly more 'n thirty feet beneath.
He held there and he kicked there and he squirmed, but no one come;
He was workin' on the roof alone--there war'n't no folks around--
He hung like death to niggers till his jaw was set and numb,
And he reely thought he'd have to drop them shingles on the ground.
But all at once old Skillins come a-toddlin' down the street;
Old Skil is sort of hump-backed, and he allus looks straight down;
So he never seed the motions of them number 'leven feet,
And he went a-amblin' by him--the goramded blind old clown!
Now this ere part is truthful--ain't a-stretchin' it a mite,--
When the feller seed that Skillins was a-walkin' past the place,
Let go his teeth and hollered, but he grabbed back quick and tight,
'Fore he had a chance to tumble, and he hung there by the face.
And he never dropped the shingles, and he never missed his grip,
And he stepped out on the ladder when they raised it underneath;
And up he went a-flukin' with them shingles on his hip,
And there's the satisfaction of a havin' double teeth.
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES
BY BRET HARTE
Which I wish to remark--
And my language is plain--
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name,
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.
Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand;
It was euchre--the same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat at the table
With the smile that was childlike and bland.
Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made
Were quite frightful to see,
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, "Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor;"
And he went for that heathen Chinee.
In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding
In the game "he did not understand."
In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs,
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers--that's wax.
Which is why I remark--
And my language is plain--
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.
POSSESSION
BY WILLIAM J. LAMPTON
Oh, give me whatever I do not possess,
No matter whatever it be;
So long as I haven't it that is enough,
I fancy, to satisfy me.
No matter whatever I happen to have,
I have it; and what I have not
Seems all that is good of the good things of earth
To lighten the lack of my lot.
No covetous spirit incites the desire
To have what I haven't, I'm sure;
Because when I have what I haven't, I want
What I haven't, the same as before.
So, give me whatever I do not possess,
No matter whatever it be;
And yet--
To have what I haven't is having, and that
Destroys all the pleasure for me.
HER BROTHER: ENFANT TERRIBLE[6]
BY EDWIN L. SABIN
This is Her brother; angel-faced,--
Barring freckles and turned-up nose,--
Demon-minded--a word well based,
As nearer acquaintance will disclose.
From outward guise the most sage of men
Would never guess what within lies hid!
If years we reckon, in age scant ten;
If cunning, old as a pyramid.
This is Her brother, who sticks and sticks
Tighter than even a brother should;
Brimming over with teasing tricks,
Hardened to bribe and "_please_ be good";
And who, when at last afar we deem,
In some sly recess but lurks in wait
To note the progress of love's young dream--
And we learn of his presence too late, too late!
This is Her brother, with watchful eyes,
Piercing, shameless, and indiscreet,
With ears wide open for soft replies
And sounds that are sibilant and sweet!
With light approach (not a lynx so still),
With figure meanly invisible,
With threatening voice and iron will,
And shrill demands or he'll "go and tell!"
This is Her brother--and I submit
To paying out quarters and sundry dimes;
This is Her brother--whose urchin wit
Moves me to wrath a thousand times;
This is Her brother--and hence I smile
And jest and cringe at his tyranny,
And call him "smart"! But just wait a while
Till he's _my_ brother--and then we'll see!
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Lippincott's Magazine.
THE JACKPOT
BY IRONQUILL
I sauntered down through Europe,
I wandered up the Nile,
I sought the mausoleums where the mummied Pharaohs lay;
I found the sculptured tunnel
Where quietly in style
Imperial sarcophagi concealed the royal clay.
Above the vault was graven deep the motto of the crown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
It's strange what deep impressions
Are made by little things.
Within the granite tunneling I saw a dingy cleft;
It was a cryptic chamber.
I drew, and got four kings.
But on a brief comparison I laid them down and left,
Because upon the granite stood that sentence bold and brown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
I make this observation:
A man with such a hand
Has psychologic feelings that perhaps he should not feel,
But I was somewhat rattled
And in a foreign land,
And had some dim suspicions, as I had not watched the deal.
And there was that inscription, too, in words that seemed to frown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
These letters were not graven
In Anglo-Saxon tongue;
Perhaps if you had seen them you had idly passed them by.
I studied erudition
When I was somewhat young;
I recognized the language when it struck my classic eye;
I saw a maxim suitable for monarch or for clown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
Detesting metaphysics,
I can not help but put
A philosophic moral where I think it ought to hang;
I've seen a "boom" for office
Grow feeble at the root,
Then change into a boomlet--then to a boomerang.
In caucus or convention, in village or in town:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
DUM VIVIMUS VIGILAMUS
BY JOHN PAUL
Turn out more ale, turn up the light;
I will not go to bed to-night.
Of all the foes that man should dread
The first and worst one is a bed.
Friends I have had both old and young,
And ale we drank and songs we sung:
Enough you know when this is said,
That, one and all,--they died in bed.
In bed they died and I'll not go
Where all my friends have perished so.
Go you who glad would buried be,
But not to-night a bed for me.
For me to-night no bed prepare,
But set me out my oaken chair.
And bid no other guests beside
The ghosts that shall around me glide;
In curling smoke-wreaths I shall see
A fair and gentle company.
Though silent all, rare revelers they,
Who leave you not till break of day.
Go you who would not daylight see,
But not to-night a bed for me:
For I've been born and I've been wed--
All of man's peril comes of bed.
And I'll not seek--whate'er befall--
Him who unbidden comes to all.
A grewsome guest, a lean-jawed wight--
God send he do not come to-night!
But if he do, to claim his own,
He shall not find me lying prone;
But blithely, bravely, sitting up,
And raising high the stirrup-cup.
Then if you find a pipe unfilled,
An empty chair, the brown ale spilled;
Well may you know, though naught be said,
That I've been borne away to bed.
AT AUNTY'S HOUSE
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
One time, when we'z at Aunty's house--
'Way in the country!--where
They's ist but woods--an' pigs, an' cows--
An' all's out-doors an' air!--
An' orchurd-swing; an' churry-trees--
An' _churries_ in 'em!--Yes, an' these-
Here red-head birds steals all they please,
An' tetch 'em ef you dare!--
W'y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there,
_We et out on the porch_!
Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut
The table wuz; an' I
Let Aunty set by me an' cut
My vittuls up--an' pie.
'Tuz awful funny!--I could see
The red-heads in the churry-tree;
An' bee-hives, where you got to be
So keerful, goin' by;--
An' "Comp'ny" there an' all!--an' we--
_We et out on the porch_!
An' I ist et _p'surves_ an' things
'At Ma don't 'low me to--
An' _chickun-gizzurds_--(don't like _wings_
Like _Parunts_ does! do _you_?)
An' all the time, the wind blowed there,
An' I could feel it in my hair,
An' ist smell clover _ever'_where!--
An' a' old red-head flew
Purt' nigh wite over my high-chair,
_When we et on the porch_!
WILLY AND THE LADY
BY GELETT BURGESS
Leave the lady, Willy, let the racket rip,
She is going to fool you, you have lost your grip,
Your brain is in a muddle and your heart is in a whirl,
Come along with me, Willy, never mind the girl!
Come and have a man-talk;
Come with those who _can_ talk;
Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through;
Love is only chatter,
Friends are all that matter;
Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!
Leave the lady, Willy, let her letter wait,
You'll forget your troubles when you get it straight,
The world is full of women, and the women full of wile;
Come along with me, Willy, we can make you smile!
Come and have a man-talk,
A rousing black-and-tan talk,
There are plenty there to teach you; there's a lot for you to do;
Your head must stop its whirling
Before you go a-girling;
Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you
Leave the lady, Willy, the night is good and long,
Time for beer and 'baccy, time to have a song;
Where the smoke is swirling, sorrow if you can--
Come along with me, Willy, come and be a man!
Come and have a man-talk,
Come with those who _can_ talk,
Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through;
Love is only chatter,
Friends are all that matter;
Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!
Leave the lady, Willy, you are rather young;
When the tales are over, when the songs are sung,
When the men have made you, try the girl again;
Come along with me, Willy, you'll be better then!
Come and have a man-talk,
Forget your girl-divan talk;
You've got to get acquainted with another point of view!
Girls will only fool you;
We're the ones to school you;
Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!
A NEW YEAR IDYL
BY EUGENE FIELD
Upon this happy New Year night,
A roach crawls up my pot of paste,
And begs me for a tiny taste.
Aye, eat thy fill, for it is right
That while the rest of earth is glad,
And bells are ringing wild and free,
Thou shouldst not, gentle roachling, be
Forlorn and gaunt and weak and sad.
This paste to-night especially
For thee and all thy kind I fixed,
You'll find some whiskey in it mixed,
For which you have to thank but me.
So freely of the banquet take,
And if you chance to find a drop
Of liquor, prithee do not stop
But quaff it for thy stomach's sake.
Why dost thou stand upon thy head,
All etiquette requirements scorning,
And sing "You won't go home till morning"
And "Put me in my little bed"?
Your tongue, fair roach, is very thick,
Your eyes are red, your cheeks are pale,
Your underpinning seems to fail,
You are, I wot, full as a tick.
ENVOI
I think I see that roach's home,
That roach's wife, with broom in hand,
That roach come staggering homeward and
Then all is glum and gloom and gloam.
A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME
BY THOMAS YBARRA
Oh! the Roman was a rogue,
He erat, was, you bettum;
He ran his automobilis
And smoked his cigarettum;
He wore a diamond studibus,
An elegant cravattum,
A maxima cum laude shirt,
And _such_ a stylish hattum!
He loved the luscious hic-hæc-hock,
And bet on games and equi;
At times he won; at others, though,
He got it in the nequi;
He winked (quo usque tandem?)
At puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes even made
Those goo-goo oculorum!
He frequently was seen
At combats gladiatorial,
And ate enough to feed
Ten boarders at Memorial;
He often went on sprees
And said, on starting homus,
"Hic labor--opus est,
Oh, where's my hic--hic--domus?"
Although he lived in Rome--
Of all the arts the middle--
He was (excuse the phrase)
A horrid individ'l;
Ah! what a diff'rent thing
Was the homo (dative, hominy)
Of far-away B. C.
From us of Anno Domini.
LITTLE BOPEEP AND LITTLE BOY BLUE
BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK
It happened one morning that Little Bopeep,
While watching her frolicsome, mischievous sheep
Out in the meadow, fell fast asleep.
By her wind-blown tresses and rose-leaf pout,
And her dimpling smile, you'd have guessed, no doubt,
'Twas love, love, love she was dreaming about.
As she lay there asleep, came little Boy Blue,
Right over the stile where the daisies grew;
Entranced by the picture, he stopped in the dew.
So wildly bewitching that beautiful morn
Was Little Bopeep that he dropped his horn
And thought no more of the cows in the corn.
Our sorrows are many, our pleasures are few;
O moment propitious! What could a man do?
He kissed the wee lassie, that Little Boy Blue!
At the smack the woolies stood all in a row,
And whispered each other, "We're clearly _de trop_;
Such conduct is perfectly shocking--let's go!"
"FESTINA LENTE"
BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE
Blessings on thee, little man,
Hasten slowly as you can;
Loiter nimbly on your tramp
With the ten-cent speedy stamp.
Thou art "boss"; the business man
Postals writes for thee to scan;
And the man who writes, "With speed,"
Gets it--in his mind--indeed.
Lo, the man who penned the note
Wasted ten cents when he wrote;
And the maid for it will wait
At the window, by the gate,
In the doorway, down the street,
List'ning for thy footsteps fleet.
But her cheek will flush and pale,
Till it comes next day by mail,
With thine own indorsement neat--
"No such number on the street."
Oh, if words could but destroy,
Thou wouldst perish, truthful boy!
Oh, for boyhood's easy way--
Messenger who sleeps all day,
Or, from rise to set of sun,
Reads "The Terror" on the run.
For your sport, the band goes by;
For your perch, the lamp post high;
For your pleasure, on the street
Dogs are fighting, drums are beat;
For your sake, the boyish fray,
Organ grinder, run-away;
Trucks for your convenience are;
For your ease, the bob-tail car;
Every time and everywhere
You're not wanted, you are there.
Dawdling, whistling, loit'ring scamp,
Seest thou this ten-cent stamp?
Stay thou not for book or toy--
Vamos! Fly! Skedaddle, boy!
THE GENIAL IDIOT DISCUSSES LEAP YEAR
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
"If I were a woman," said the Idiot, "I think that unless I had an
affidavit from the man, sworn to before a notary and duly signed and
sealed, stating that he did the proposing, I should decline to marry, or
announce my engagement to be married in Leap Year. It is one of the
drawbacks which the special privilege of Leap Year confers upon women
that it puts them under suspicion of having done the courting if the
thing comes out during the year."
"Don't you worry about that," laughed Mrs. Pedagog. "You can go through
this country with a fine tooth comb and I'll wager you you won't find a
woman anywhere who avails herself of the privilege who wouldn't have
done the same thing in any old year if she wanted to. Of all the funny
old superstitions, the quaintest of the lot is that Leap Year proposal
business."
"How you talk," cried the Idiot. "Such iconoclasm. I had always supposed
that Leap Year was a sort of matrimonial safety valve for old maids, and
here in a trice you overthrow all the cherished notions of a lifetime.
Why, Mrs. Pedagog, I know men who take to the woods every Leap Year just
to escape the possibilities."
"Courageous souls," said the landlady. "Facing the unknown perils of the
forest, rather than manfully meeting a proposal of marriage."