The humorous story is but the other side of the society story. It is
not a thorough study in realism either, for then it would be sad for
a large part--as George Meredith has shown us; but it is rather a
course of events more or less skilfully arranged to produce a laugh.
There is transposition here, suppression there, exaggeration in many
places. The reader joins the author in the conspiracy to concoct
fun, and as a result both have a good time. The refinement and taste
of these narratives range all the long distance from the vulgar
horse-play and impossible dialect of the newspaper "funny page" to the
genuine humor of Mrs. Stowe's "Sam Lawson" fireside stories and the
quiet pleasantness of Sarah Orne Jewett's character sketches in "The
Country of the Pointed Firs." Mark Twain began the foundation of that
distinction which he now has as the greatest of modern humorists in his
early volume of sketches, entitled "The Celebrated Jumping Frog."
[The fableau]
This type of story probably originated in the medieval French
_fableau_,[5] which was a short humorous tale of the people--one
recounting some ludicrous situation. It was generally written in
octosyllabic couplets, a metrical form which was admirably suited to
sharp, spirited narrative by reason of its skip, its carelessness, its
sauciness. Boccaccio and his long train of Italian and other followers
retold in prose many of these French stories; but it must be admitted
that the condensation and the rapidity of the older metrical tales
become diffuseness and sometimes tediousness in the prose version. The
fableau was sometimes satiric; usually baldly, even coarsely realistic.
Its purpose, however, was always to amuse. Chaucer retold five or
more fableaux. He is a jolly narrator, and carries one along often in
spite of one's prejudice in favor of modesty and decency. He is honest
enough, however, to warn the reader of possible unpalatableness and
modern enough to attempt to excuse himself on the basis of art.
[Picaresque romance]
That the picaresque romances embody such stories as the fableau is
perfectly evident. Dissect, for instance, "Lazarillo de Tormes," or
better, "Guzman de Alfarache," and you will see that the various
adventures of the heroes would make capital _fableaux_ or humorous
_contes_. The idea of combining low adventures into a series connected
with one hero comes down from the days of Nero, when Petronius Arbiter
wrote his "Satyricon." But the term picaresque romance refers to the
Spanish popular tales of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the
heroes of which are rascals, or picaros. As sharpers, they are the
prototypes of our more modern Yankee in fiction who always "does" the
other fellow before the other fellow "does" him. Some of them, like
the "Yank," are not so much mean as just bold and resourceful when
at a disadvantage. They go to court like the Connecticut Yankee and
see their betters, whom they criticise most straightforwardly. They
are older and naughtier Tom Sawyers and Huckleberry Finns. In short,
by their vernacular of the highway and by their impudent deeds they
stand in the historical line of types which includes the heroes of
the fableau and the heroes of the modern burlesque or comic tale. The
difference between humorous and comic and between comic and burlesque
is a difference of degree.
Of the direct imitations of these Spanish rogues there is the French
Gil Blas; there are the English Roderick Random, Jonathan Wild, and
Miss Becky Sharp; there is the Amateur Cracksman; and, come to think
about it, there is our own late American _Saturday Evening Post's_
ubiquitous Mr. Farthest North, promoter, success attend him!
To write a humorous story you will need to employ epigram, point,
climax, colloquialisms, and perhaps dialect. If you touch dialect,
however, take care to know what you are about; for nothing is more
repellent to a reader familiar with a particular vernacular than to be
confronted with pitiful and incorrect attempts at it. To write negro
dialect you should be as well versed as Joel Chandler Harris; to write
Irish, as apt as Samuel Lover or W. B. Yeats; to reveal children, as
sympathetic as Kate Douglas Wiggin; to give us boy's fun, as charming
and wholesome as Thomas Bailey Aldrich; to combine humor and the
ingenious tale, you should be as inventive as Frank R. Stockton; and
to smile at Americans and their foibles you should be as patriotic and
kindly as Charles Battell Loomis.
George Washington Cable, Ian Maclaren, Thomas Nelson Page, J. M.
Barrie, and Mary E. Wilkins Freeman have written excellent dialect, but
they are not primarily humorists. They use the vernacular of the people
as aids to character revelation.
The difference between a humorous story and comic anecdote is the
difference of length and veracity. An anecdote purports to be true. A
humorous story, only "drawn from life."
=The Expatriation of Jonathan Taintor=
Reprinted by permission from Loomis's "Cheerful Americans."
Copyright, Henry Holt and Company.
While I was in London I met a New York friend who was stopping in that
America-in-London, Bloomsbury, and during our conversation he told me
that he had for a fellow-boarder no less a person than Jonathan Taintor.
I felt that I ought to know Jonathan Taintor, and I have since found
out that most people have heard something concerning him; but although
the name had a good old Connecticut sound, I could not fit Mr. Taintor
into any nook, so I frankly said to my friend: "Jonathan Taintor lies
in the future for me."
"Why, I'll have to introduce you. I believe he's been written up
before, but he's such a character that it will do you good to meet him.
Can't you come to dinner tonight?"
Now, I had been reckoning on going that evening to the opera at Covent
Garden; but characters do not pop around every corner, and, besides,
I had not seen my New York friend for a long time, so I accepted his
cordial invitation.
That evening at seven I went to the American boarding-house in Bedford
Place, just off High Holborn, and was soon sitting at dinner with my
friend.
Directly opposite me sat a man who might have left the valley of the
Connecticut five minutes before. There are Taintors all about the
Haddams that look just like him. He was short, thick-set, with dreamy
blue eyes, a ruddy face that betokened a correct life, a curved nose,
broad, straight, shaven upper lip, and a straggling silver chin-beard.
There was more or less twang in the tones of every one at the table,
but his voice had a special nasal quality that seemed to bespeak a
lifetime of bucolic Yankee existence. It was really so pronounced as to
sound stagy.
The talk at dinner was desultory, and Mr. Taintor said little. I
noticed that he had a dish of corned beef and cabbage, although the
pièce de résistance for the rest of us was beef with a Yorkshire
pudding. He left the table before coffee was served, but not before my
friend had asked him to join us later on the balcony for a smoke and
chat.
When we went up we found him already on the balcony, smoking a corn-cob
pipe of American manufacture. My friend introduced us, and he shook my
hand with one downward jerk. How often have I felt that pressure in the
rural districts of Connecticut!
When Mr. Taintor learned that I had been in London only a week and had
just come from Middletown, his face lighted up with interest, and he
said:
"You have passed my wife in the street. She often comes to town market
days."
"Oh, then she's not with you," was my somewhat idiotic reply.
"No, she ain't; an' unless the good Lord heaves enough sand into the
Atlantic to make the walkin' good, she won't never be with me."
"You must be anxious to get back? Been over here some weeks?" said I.
"A matter of thirty year," he replied, and sighed prodigiously.
"Why, you must be quite an Englishman by this time."
He looked troubled. "Dew I look English?" said he.
"No, no," I replied, comfortingly; "you might pass for Uncle Sam."
"Well, I hope I'll never pass fer anythin' wuss," said he. "It's jest
thirty year in November sence I left America, an' I've be'n in this
dreary taown ever sence; but I ain't never read an English noospaper
nor ridden in an English omnibus or horse-car or steam-car, neither,
an' I try to eat as much as possible what I would ef I was at home with
Cynthy. An' I'm a Republican clean through."
"Well, what's keeping you here?" said I.
Mr. Taintor pressed down the tobacco in his pipe to make it burn
better, and said: "I can't stan' the trip. Y'see, when we was married
we thought we'd cross the ocean on aour weddin'-trip. Father hed lef'
me comfor'ble, an' Cynthy hed be'n dead-set on crossin' all through
aour courtship. Fact is, her sister Sairy said 'at 'at was all she
was marryin' fer; but of course Sairy was a great joker, an' I knowed
better. Well, we went daown to Noo York the day before the steamer
sailed, an' we put up at a hotel there on Broadway, an' durin' the
evenin' some women got talkin' to Cynthy, an' told her haow awful sick
she was like to be ef she hedn't never be'n on the ocean before. Well,
it frightened her so that she backed plumb aout er the harness--said
she guessed we'd better go to Saratogy instead; an' the upshot was we
hed aour fust an' last quar'l then. I told her I'd bought the tickets
fer Europe an' we'd hev to go, an' she said she would n' expose herself
to two or three weeks of sickness under the idee it was a picnic
party, an' all I could say to her couldn't shake her. Well, it was bad
enough losin' the price of one ticket, but I couldn't lose the price
of two, an' so we finally come to an agreement. She was to go up to
Saratogy, although the season up ther' was over, an' I was to cross the
ocean alone. It was too late to git my money back, an', to tell the
truth, I allers did hate to give a plan up, 'thout I hed sufficient
reason; so nex' mornin' we went daown to the dock, fer we'd made up,
an' she was comin' ter see me off. She took on consid'able, an' I was
cut up myse'f, partic'larly when I thought of the ticket thet was bein'
thrown away. But she caught a glimpse of the waves behind a ferry-boat,
an' she turned white as a sheet an' shook her head; so I kissed her
good-by, an' the steamer sailed away with me on it, an' her a-wavin'
her arms an' cryin' on the dock."
"Poor fellow!" said I, sympathetically.
"Well, the amount of seasickness she saved herself by stayin' to hum
couldn't be reckoned 'thougt I was a scholar, which I ain't. I took to
my berth before we was aout of sight of land, an' ef the brimstun of
the future is any wuss 'an what I suffered, I don't want to die. But
I wished I could die all the way over. I come right here to London,
because there was a man I knew comin' here, too, an' I wrote to Cynthy
to come right over as soon as she could, an' we'd live aour lives aout
here; fer bad as it was here, nothin' on top of creation could temp' me
to go back, not even her pretty face."
He stopped a minute and half closed his eyes, and I fancy he was
calling her pretty face back through the thirty years.
"Well, well, that was hard lines," said I.
"Yes, but it was wuss when I got her reply. She told me she hed n't
hed a happy minute sence I left, although she hed gone up to Saratogy,
but the water tasted like something was into it, an' she'd come away
after one day, an' was now on the farm at Goodspeed's Landing. An' she
said thet ef _I'd_ be'n so sick _she 'd_ proba'ly die, an' she could
n't bear to think of bein' heaved into the Atlantic, an' must stop
where she was. Ah me! Sence then we 've be'n as lovin' as we could be,
writin' reg'lar an' rememberin' each other's birthdays an' aour weddin'
anniversaries; but we hain't sot eyes on each other, an' won't until we
're both safe on that other shore they tell us abaout. An' I hope thet
trip 'll be a smooth one."
"And what does Mrs. Taintor do all alone?"
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it into his pocket before
he replied:
"She runs the old farm as I never could have run it. She's a born
farmer, that wife of mine is. She has a hired man to help, but she does
a good share of the work herself, an' every year she sen's me half the
airnings; an' I live on here, hatin' it all an' hopin' for the time to
come when the ocean'll either dry up or freeze over, or that Cynthy
will overcome her dislike to the trip. Married life ain't e'zac'ly
pleasant so fur apart, but I c'n truthfully say we 've never quar'led
sence I come here, an' I ain't seen a woman sence I landed thet could
hold a candle to Cynthy. Cynthy is a pretty gal."
Shortly afterward the old man retired to his own room, and then my
friend, who had not spoken once since we came out, wickedly hinted
that maybe Mr. Taintor only imagined that he loved Cynthia, and
that they were happier separated; but I hate to spoil idyls in that
way. To me it is very beautiful, the thought of that dear old lady
in Connecticut, who runs the farm and writes loving letters to her
expatriated spouse and sends him a share of the profits, but who cannot
overcome her antipathy to the unstable sea. And when I think of Mr.
Taintor as he appeared that evening in Bloomsbury, with his honest
Yankee traditions, and his ardent love far his absent wife, I say,
"Hurrah for both of them!"
--Charles Battell Loomis.
=Kileto and the Physician=
It was now about a month and a half since Kileto felt something harsh
in his throat. He took a mirror and opened his mouth as wide as
possible. On looking at the mirror he saw some of his large papillae.
He was so greatly frightened to see such "red bodies," as he called
them, that he exclaimed, "Ah, dear Life, you are going to depart soon!
But, anyhow, I will at once go to the doctors to have these things
identified." Without further delay, he went to a doctor, whose name I
must not mention, lest he be angry with me for publishing this piece of
news.
The doctor, after examining Kileto's throat, opened his book of
medicine and searched in it for half an hour. Then after he was tired
of not finding the right place to read, he said to Kileto, "Such
sickness as you have is rarely found in other men. Your disease
is called 'Sampaga' in our dialect. However, I will give you a
prescription." "Doctor," said Kileto, "do you think I shall ever be
cured of my sickness?" "Why, yes," answered the doctor; "only it will
take several months before your disease can be cured. Perhaps, with the
help of God and me, you will recover sooner. I want to ask you several
questions. Will you answer me patiently?"
"Yes," answered Kileto.
"Well, do you smoke cigarettes?"
"Yes, sir; three packages a day would not be sufficient."
"Well, this is the first habit you must abstain from. Do you chew
betel-nut?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is the second habit you must abstain from. Do you often go to
church?"
"Yes, sir; once in a year, if my wife happens to remind me of it."
"You!--a Catholic!--or a pagan?"
"I am both Catholic and pagan."
"Well, well, if ever you expect to recover, these three things you must
do--you must abstain from smoking, chewing betel-nut, and you must go
to church every Sunday, for the purification of your soul."
Kileto went home, somewhat relieved. He told his wife what the doctor
bade him do. He did all that the doctor had ordered. He went to the
church every day--morning and afternoon--praying the whole "rosario."
Moreover, he confessed his sins to the priest. He abstained from
smoking and from chewing betel-nut.
Every day, after he had gone to church, he went to consult the doctor,
who always gave him medicine. Almost all sorts of poisons to kill
bacteria were prescribed. One day the doctor said to Kileto, "Do not
come here for several days. I am going to study about your sickness. I
will tell you the truth--you will die when your sampaga bursts." This
statement of the doctor made Kileto very sad.
After a week, Kileto consulted the doctor again. "I think," said the
doctor, "I had better burn your 'sampaga.' What do you say?"
"Well, you may do whatever you think best."
"But no," rejoined the doctor; "I'd better inject medicine into your
body."
"All right, sir. I told you that you may do whatever you think best."
Then the doctor injected medicine into Kileto's body. Kileto, because
of the results of this injection, was displeased with the doctor, for
he could hardly walk home.
One day as Kileto's wife was looking in a mirror, she found the image
of her large papillae, which were like her husband's. Of course, she
was very much frightened, lest she also had "Sampaga." She took her
small boy of ten years to the window and looking at his tongue, found
out that he also had papillae. "These sampagas," she said, "must be
common." So she examined the tongues of everybody who came near her.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "these things must be natural. Oh, God, you save
my husband! But I will fool my husband. I will tell him I have the same
disease that he has."
When her husband came, she immediately led him to the window and
showed her papillae. "You see," she said, "I have the same disease
as you have. How now? Then we shall die together." To frighten her
husband more, she said, "Open your mouth, and let me see how your
'sampagas' are getting along." Then Kileto opened his mouth. His wife
examined then, and said to him, "Your sampagas are increasing." At
this statement Kileto jumped with great horror, and said, "Oh, yes, my
end is coming." "Now I see," replied the wife, "how like a small boy
you are. I have been told by a student that with these 'red bodies' we
taste our food. So you need not be afraid. Just look at the tongues
of everybody, and you will see that they have the 'papillae,' as the
student calls them."
Kileto was convinced, and regretted the great error he had committed.
He had spent on medicine all his and his wife's earnings for two years.
One day Kileto, when left alone in the house, said to himself, "I know
now the reason why the doctor said that I would die when my 'sampagas'
burst. Of course, these are not 'sampagas'; and how could they burst?
These things grow with the man. I am uncertain, however, whether the
doctor had a private purpose in not telling me at once that the things
I have on my tongue are 'papillae,' or whether he had not acquired
enough knowledge in his medical studies to be able to distinguish the
papillae from the disease called 'sampaga.'
"But in spite of all the trouble he gave me--injecting medicine into
my limbs, which made me lame for three days, wringing, as it were,
all my money from my hands--I am grateful to him. Why? Because I was
made religious, going to church once every two days. I abstained from
chewing betel-nut, and smoking cigarettes, and now I care no more for
them."
Whenever the members of the family are in good humor, they talk of
this story and laugh until they are out of breath.
--Lorenzo Licup.
_A FILIPINO FABLEAU_[6]
=The Lame Man and the Deaf Family=
One cloudy afternoon while I was wandering along the road between Paco
and Pandacan, I met a lame man limping down the way. The man seemed
very tired, and he was carrying on his head a pot which I thought
contained water. The fellow was a mestizo and was dressed in a white
suit. Seeing me, he said, "Will you please show me a house where I can
ask for a drink of water?" I could not answer him at once, because I
nearly laughed in his face when I saw it was only his long _bigote_
that made his split upper-lip unnoticed at a distance. Wishing to have
some fun out of him I showed him the house that stood in an orchard on
one side of the road.
The house that I pointed out belonged to a family all the members
of which were deaf; namely, the father, the mother, and a daughter.
Because of a kind of sickness that occurred in the family some years
before, they had lost their sense of hearing. People had nicknamed them
the "Deaf Family."
The man, or Mr. Bigote as I shall call him in honor of his long
mustache, went limping directly to the house; and, without letting Mr.
Bigote notice me, I followed him and hid behind the tall grasses that
grew near the orchard. From my place I had a good view of the orchard
and could hear the conversation between Mr. Bigote and the members of
the family.
The orchard was a trapezium in shape. Except the front, which was
separated by a wire fence from the road, all sides of it were
surrounded by tall grasses. On each vertex of the trapezium stood an
ilang-ilang tree. At the center stood a small nipa house facing the
road. Around the house were several banana trees and camote plants. The
house was old, and yet its stairs were made of stone. Under the bamboo
floor of the building I could see a large blind dog. Near the foot of
the stairs the daughter of the Deaf Family was sitting on a stone,
giving food to her hog. It was a very fat hog, but neither ear nor tail
could be seen attached to its great body.
The dialogue was begun by Mr. Bigote. "Good morning, madam," he said
politely.
"We do not want to sell our hog, sir," answered the girl.
"I do not mean to buy your hog, but I only ask for a drink of water,
for I am very thirsty," said the lame man quietly.
"Sir, it is very fat, because I always feed it well. You will not see
its ears and tail because that bad dog ate them when their owner was
yet small," answered the girl, pointing to the blind dog that was
barking at Mr. Bigote.
Noticing that she did not hear him very well, Mr. Bigote shouted, "Let
me have a drink of water!"
"Mother, here is a man who wants to buy our hog," shouted the young
person to her mother, who was then, I supposed, cooking their lunch.
The mother peeped through the window and when she saw Mr. Bigote
exclaimed angrily, "What! Are you going to marry that _Bangus_? I will
wake your father. Tambucio, here is your daughter. She wants to marry a
_bangus_."
"I am only asking for a drink of water, madam," said Mr. Bigote.
But when the father saw his wife very angry at the man who was standing
near their stairs, he asked Mr. Bigote angrily, "Why did you hurt my
dog?"
"Do not be angry, sir. I come to ask for a drink of water and not to
harm your dog," answered Mr. Bigote.
Thinking that the man had said something bad to him, the father took a
piece of wood and went down stairs. Seeing the danger, Mr. Bigote ran
limping to the road, but the father followed him and struck the pot he
was carrying on his head. The pot, which I had thought contained water,
was broken, and I was very much surprised to see Mr. Bigote covered
with molasses.
--Santiago Y. Rotea.
IV. The Occasional Story
[The spirit of the occasional story]
A story for a special occasion may be of any narrative type the author
chooses: it may be a legend, a tale of mere wonder, a humorous story,
a study in realism, a weird tale, or a ghost story (if one should
select All Saints' Eve). Anything the author feels inclined to write
will fall within the class provided it have about it the general
atmosphere of a particular celebration. If that be the Fourth of July,
the reader expects patriotism or its popular substitute, firecrackers;
if Thanksgiving, gladness and generosity; if Christmas, reverence and
good-will, and for the Northern people some pagan jollity in addition,
for it is well recognized that we Anglo-Saxons have incorporated into
the Christian festival our Druidical Yule-tide; if New Year's, then
forgiveness and well-wishing to all and a sense of everybody's putting
his best foot foremost; if Easter, hope and the joy of spring-time.
[Its masters]
It might be well to think and read a little about Easter if you want to
write a special story. Not much has been done with that season, though
it is full of possibilities. It, too, is a combination of old and new
ideals. We have many beautiful Christmas legends and tales, even by the
great authors--Dickens, Thackeray and many of the French and Spanish
short-story tellers; and by our later writers, as well. Professor Van
Dyke, Professor Mabie, Kate Douglas Wiggin, William Canton, Bret Harte,
almost everyone who has written, in fact,--but Easter stories are
harder to find.
[Suggestions]
The English-speaking peoples have not so many special days as have the
Latin. The adherents of the Catholic church have all the Saints' days
to celebrate. These yield many pretty fancies. Keats has made famous
St. Agnes' Eve. The other religions, too, are worth thinking about.
The Mohammedans and the Buddhists are devotees, and have interesting
customs. Besides the religious memorials there are the nations'
hero days. And then, too, the special anniversaries of societies and
associations. One's own school commencement, the best event of one's
favorite college--there are surely many inspirations for occasional
stories.
=The Lost Child=
Translated by J. Matthewman. Copyright, 1894, by The Current
Literature Publishing Company. Reprinted by permission.
On that morning, which was the morning before Christmas, two
important events happened simultaneously--the sun rose, and so did M.
Jean-Baptiste Godefroy.
Unquestionably the sun, illuminating suddenly the whole of Paris
with its morning rays, is an old friend, regarded with affection by
everybody. It is particularly welcome after a fortnight of misty
atmosphere and gray skies, when the wind has cleared the air and
allowed the sun's rays to reach the earth again. Besides all of which
the sun is a person of importance. Formerly, he was regarded as a
god, and was called Osiris, Apollyon, and I don't know what else. But
do not imagine that because the sun is so important he is of greater
influence than M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy, millionaire banker, director
of the _Comptoir Général de Crédit_, administrator of several big
companies, deputy and member of the General Counsel of the Eure,
officer of the Legion of Honor, etc., etc. And whatever opinion the sun
may have about himself, he certainly has not a higher opinion than M.
Jean-Baptiste Godefroy has of _himself_. So we are authorized to state,
and we consider ourselves justified in stating, that on the morning
in question, at about a quarter to eight, the sun and M. Jean-Baptiste
Godefroy rose.
Certainly the manner of rising of these two great powers mentioned
was not the same. The good old sun began by doing a great many pretty
actions. As the sleet had, during the night, covered the bare branches
of the trees in the boulevard Malesherbes, where the _hôtel_ Godefroy
is situated, with a powdered coating, the great magician sun amused
himself by transforming the branches into great bouquets of red
coral. At the same time he scattered his rays impartially on those
poor passers-by whom necessity sent out, so early in the morning, to
gain their daily bread. He even had a smile for the poor clerk, who,
in a thin overcoat, was hurrying to his office, as well as for the
_grisette_, shivering under her thin, insufficient clothing; for the
workman carrying half a loaf under his arm, for the car-conductor as
he punched the tickets, and for the dealer in roast chestnuts, who was
roasting his first panful. In short, the sun gave pleasure to everybody
in the world. M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy, on the contrary, rose in
quite a different frame of mind. On the previous evening he had dined
with the Minister for Agriculture. The dinner, from the removal of
the _potage_ to the salad, bristled with truffles, and the banker's
stomach, aged forty-seven years, experienced the burning and biting of
pyrosis. So the manner in which M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy rang for his
valet-de-chambre was so expressive that, as he got some warm water for
his master's shaving, Charles said to the kitchen-maid:
"There he goes! The monkey is barbarously ill-tempered again this
morning. My poor Gertrude, we're going to have a miserable day."
Whereupon, walking on tiptoe, with eyes modestly cast down, he entered
the chamber of his master, opened the curtains, lit the fire, and
made all the necessary preparations for the toilet with the discreet
demeanor and respectful gestures of a sacristan placing the sacred
vessels on the altar for the priest.
"What sort of weather this morning?" demanded M. Godefroy curtly, as
he buttoned his undervest of gray swansdown upon a stomach that was
already a little too prominent.
"Very cold, sir," replied Charles meekly. "At six o'clock the
thermometer marked seven degrees above zero. But, as you will see,
sir, the sky is quite clear, and I think we are going to have a fine
morning."
In stropping his razor, M. Godefroy approached the window, drew aside
one of the hangings, looked on the boulevard, which was bathed in
brightness, and made a slight grimace which bore some resemblance to a
smile.
It is all very well to be perfectly stiff and correct, and to know
that it is bad taste to show feeling of any kind in the presence of
domestics, but the appearance of the roguish sun in the middle of
December sends such a glow of warmth to the heart that it is impossible
to disguise the fact. So M. Godefroy deigned, as before observed, to
smile. If some one had whispered to the opulent banker that his smile
had anything in common with that of the printer's boy, who was enjoying
himself by making a slide on the pavement, M. Godefroy would have been
highly incensed. But it really was so all the same; and during the
space of one minute this man, who was so occupied by business matters,
this leading light in the financial and political worlds, indulged in
the childish pastime of watching the passers-by, and following with
his eyes the files of conveyances as they gaily rolled in the sunshine.
But pray do not be alarmed. Such a weakness could not last long.
People of no account, and those who have nothing to do, may be able to
let their time slip by in doing nothing. It is very well for women,
children, poets, and riffraff. M. Godefroy had other fish to fry; and
the work of the day which was commencing promised to be exceptionally
heavy. From half-past eight to ten o'clock he had a meeting at his
office with a certain number of gentlemen, all of whom bore a striking
resemblance to M. Godefroy. Like him, they were very nervous; they had
risen with the sun, they were all _blasés_, and they all had the same
object in view--to gain money. After breakfast (which he took after the
meeting), M. Godefroy had to leap into his carriage and rush to the
Bourse, to exchange a few words with other gentlemen who had also risen
at dawn, but who had not the least spark of imagination among them.
(The conversations were always on the same subject--money.) From there,
without losing an instant, M. Godefroy went to preside over another
meeting of acquaintances entirely void of compassion and tenderness.
The meeting was held round a baize-covered table, which was strewn with
heaps of papers and well provided with ink-wells. The conversation
again turned on money, and various methods of gaining it.
After the aforesaid meeting he, in his capacity of deputy, had to
appear before several commissions (always held in rooms where there
were baize-covered tables and ink-wells and heaps of papers). There he
found men as devoid of sentiment as he was, all utterly incapable of
neglecting any occasion of gaining money, but who, nevertheless, had
the extreme goodness to sacrifice several hours of the afternoon to the
glory of France.
After having quickly shaved he donned a morning suit, the elegant cut
and finish of which showed that the old beau of nearly fifty had not
ceased trying to please. When he shaved he spared the narrow strip
of pepper-and-salt beard round his chin, as it gave him the air of a
trustworthy family man in the eyes of the Arrogants and of fools in
general. Then he descended to his cabinet, where he received the file
of men who were entirely occupied by one thought--that of augmenting
their capital. These gentlemen discussed several projected enterprises,
all of them of considerable importance, notably that of a new railroad
to be laid across a wild desert. Another scheme was for the founding of
monster works in the environs of Paris, another of a mine to be worked
in one of the South American republics. It goes without saying that no
one asked if the railway would have passengers or goods to carry, or
if the proposed works should manufacture cotton nightcaps or distil
whisky; whether the mine was to be of virgin gold or of second-rate
copper: certainly not. The conversation of M. Godefroy's morning
callers turned exclusively upon the profits which it would be possible
to realize during the week which should follow the issue of the shares.
They discussed particularly the values of the shares, which they knew
would be destined before long to be worth less than the paper on which
they were printed in fine style.
These conversations, bristling with figures, lasted till ten o'clock
precisely, and then the director of the _Comptoir Général de Crédit_,
who, by the way, was an honest man--at least, as honest as is to
be found in business--courteously conducted his last visitor to
the head of the stairway. The visitor named was an old villain, as
rich as Crœsus, who, by a not uncommon chance, enjoyed the general
esteem of the public; whereas, had justice been done to him, he
would have been lodging at the expense of the State in one of those
large establishments provided by a thoughtful government for smaller
delinquents; and there he would have pursued a useful and healthy
calling for a lengthy period, the exact length having been fixed
by the judges of the supreme court. But M. Godefroy showed him out
relentlessly, notwithstanding his importance--it was absolutely
necessary to be at the Bourse at 11 o'clock--and went into the
dining-room.
It was a luxuriously furnished room. The furniture and plate would have
served to endow a cathedral. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that M.
Godefroy took a gulp of bicarbonate of soda, his indigestion refused
to subside, consequently the banker could only take the scantiest
breakfast--that of a dyspeptic. In the midst of such luxury, and under
the eye of a well-paid butler, M. Godefroy could only eat a couple of
boiled eggs and nibble a little mutton chop. The man of money trifled
with dessert--took only a crumb of Roquefort--not more than two cents'
worth. Then the door opened and an overdressed but charming little
child--young Raoul, four years old--the son of the company director,
entered the room, accompanied by his German nursery governess.
This event occurred every day at the same hour--a quarter to eleven,
precisely, while the carriage which was to take the banker to the
Bourse was awaiting the gentleman who had only a quarter of an hour to
give to paternal sentiment. It was not that he did not love his son. He
did love him--nay, he adored him, in his own particular way. But then,
you know, business is business.
At the age of forty-two, when already worldly-wise and _blasé_, he
had fancied himself in love with the daughter of one of his club
friends--Marquis de Neufontaine, an old rascal--a nobleman, but one
whose card-playing was more than open to suspicion, and who would have
been expelled from the club more than once but for the influence of M.
Godefroy. The nobleman was only too happy to become the father-in-law
of a man who would pay his debts, and without any scruples he handed
over his daughter--a simple and ingenuous child of seventeen, who was
taken from a convent to be married--to the worldly banker. The girl
was certainly sweet and pretty, but she had no dowry except numerous
aristocratic prejudices and romantic illusions, and her father thought
he was fortunate in getting rid of her on such favorable terms. M.
Godefroy, who was the son of an avowed old miser of Andelys, had always
remained a man of the people, and intensely vulgar. In spite of his
improved circumstances, he had not improved. His entire lack of tact
and refinement was painful to his young wife, whose tenderest feelings
he ruthlessly and thoughtlessly trampled upon. Things were looking
unpromising, when, happily for her, Madame Godefroy died in giving
birth to her firstborn. When he spoke of his deceased wife, the banker
waxed poetical, although had she lived they would have been divorced in
six months. His son he loved dearly for several reasons--first, because
the child was an only son; secondly, because he was a scion of two
such houses as Godefroy and Neufontaine; finally, because the man of
money had naturally great respect for the heir to many millions. So the
youngster had golden rattles and other similar toys, and was brought
up like a young Dauphin. But his father, overwhelmed with business
worries, could never give the child more than fifteen minutes per day
of his precious time--and, as on the day mentioned, it was always
during "cheese"--and for the rest of the day the father abandoned the
child to the care of the servants.
"Good morning, Raoul."
"Good morning, papa."
And the company director, having put his serviette away, sat young
Raoul on his left knee, took the child's head between his big paws, and
in stroking and kissing it actually forgot all his money matters and
even his note of the afternoon, which was of great importance to him,
as by it he could gain quite an important amount of patronage.
"Papa," said little Raoul suddenly, "will Father Christmas put anything
in my shoe to-night?"
The father answered with "Yes, if you are a good child." This was
very striking from a man who was a pronounced freethinker, who always
applauded every anti-clerical attack in the Chamber with a vigorous
"Hear, hear." He made a mental note that he must buy some toys for his
child that very afternoon.
Then he turned to the nursery governess with:
"Are you quite satisfied with Raoul, Mademoiselle Bertha?"
Mademoiselle Bertha became as red as a peony at being addressed, as if
the question were scarcely _comme il faut_, and replied by a little
imbecile snigger, which seemed fully to satisfy M. Godefroy's curiosity
about his son's conduct.
"It's fine to-day," said the financier, "but cold. If you take Raoul
to Monceau Park, mademoiselle, please be careful to wrap him up well."
Mademoiselle, by a second fit of idiotic smiling, having set at rest
M. Godefroy's doubts and fears on that essential point, he kissed his
child, left the room hastily, and in the hall was enveloped in his fur
coat by Charles, who also closed the carriage door. Then the faithful
fellow went off to the café which he frequented, Rue de Miromesnil,
where he had promised to meet the coachman of the baroness who lived
opposite, to play a game of billiards, thirty up--and spot-barred, of
course.
Thanks to the brown bay--for which a thousand francs over and above
its value was paid by M. Godefroy as a result of a sumptuous snail
supper given to that gentleman's coachman by the horse-dealer--thanks
to the expensive brown bay which certainly went well, the financier was
able to get through his many engagements satisfactorily. He appeared
punctually at the Bourse, sat at several committee tables, and at a
quarter to five, by voting with the ministry, he helped to reassure
France and Europe that the rumors of a ministerial crisis had been
totally unfounded. He voted with the ministry because he had succeeded
in obtaining the favors which he demanded as the price of his vote.
After he had thus nobly fulfilled his duty to himself and his country,
M. Godefroy remembered what he had said to his child on the subject
of Father Christmas, and gave his coachman the address of a dealer
in toys. There he bought, and had put in his carriage, a fantastic
rocking-horse, mounted on castors--a whip in each ear; a box of leaden
soldiers--all as exactly alike as those grenadiers of the Russian
regiment of the time of Paul I, who all had black hair and snub noses;
and a score of other toys, all equally striking and costly. Then, as
he returned home, softly reposing in his well-swung carriage, the rich
banker, who, after all, was a father, began to think with pride of his
little boy and to form plans for his future.
When the child grew up he should have an education worthy of a prince,
and he would be one, too, for there was no longer any aristocracy
except that of money, and his boy would have a capital of about
30,000,000 francs.
If his father, a pettifogging provincial lawyer, who had formerly dined
in the Latin Quarter when in Paris, who had remarked every evening
when putting on a white tie that he looked as fine as if he were going
to a wedding--if he had been able to accumulate an enormous fortune,
and to become thereby a power in the republic; if he had been able to
obtain in marriage a young lady, one of whose ancestors had fallen at
Marignan, what an important personage little Raoul might become. M.
Godefroy built all sorts of air-castles for his boy, forgetting that
Christmas is the birthday of a very poor little child, son of a couple
of vagrants, born in a stable, where the parents only found lodging
through charity.
In the midst of the banker's dreams the coachman cried: "Door, please,"
and drove into the yard. As he went up the steps M. Godefroy was
thinking that he had barely time to dress for dinner; but on entering
the vestibule he found all the domestics crowded in front of him in a
state of alarm and confusion. In a corner, crouching on a seat, was the
German nursery-governess, crying. When she saw the banker she buried
her face in her hands and wept still more copiously than before. M.
Godefroy felt that some misfortune had happened.
"What's the meaning of all this? What's amiss? What has happened?"
Charles, the _valet de chambre_, a sneaking rascal of the worst type,
looked at his master with eyes full of pity and stammered: "Mr. Raoul--"
"My boy?"
"Lost, sir. The stupid German did it. Since four o'clock this afternoon
he has not been seen."
The father staggered back like one who had been hit by a ball. The
German threw herself at his feet, screaming: "Mercy, mercy!" and the
domestics all spoke at the same time.
"Bertha didn't go to _parc Monceau_. She lost the child over there on
the fortifications. We have sought him all over, sir. We went to the
office for you, sir, and then to the Chamber, but you had just left.
Just imagine, the German had a rendezvous with her lover every day,
beyond the ramparts, near the gate of Asniéres. What a shame! It is a
place full of low gipsies and strolling players. Perhaps the child has
been stolen. Yes, sir, we informed the police at once. How could we
imagine such a thing? A hypocrite, that German! She had a rendezvous,
doubtless, with a countryman--a Prussian spy, sure enough!"
His son lost! M. Godefroy seemed to have a torrent of blood rushing
through his head. He sprang at Mademoiselle, seized her by the arms and
shook her furiously.
"Where did you lose him, you miserable girl? Tell me the truth before I
shake you to pieces. Do you hear? Do you hear?"
But the unfortunate girl could only cry and beg for mercy.
The banker tried to be calm. No, it was impossible. Nobody would dare
to steal _his_ boy. Somebody would find him and bring him back. Of that
there could be no doubt. He could scatter money about right and left,
and could have the entire police force at his orders. And he would set
to work at once, for not an instant should be lost.
"Charles, don't let the horses be taken out. You others, see that this
girl doesn't escape. I'm going to the Prefecture."
And M. Godefroy, with his heart thumping against his sides as if it
would break them, his hair wild with fright, darted into his carriage,
which at once rolled off as fast as the horses could take it. What
irony! The carriage was full of glittering playthings, which sparkled
every time a gaslight shone on them. For the next day was the birthday
of the divine Infant at whose cradle wise men and simple shepherds
alike adored.
"My poor little Raoul! Poor darling! Where is my boy?" repeated the
father as in his anguish he dug his nails into the cushions of the
carriage. At that moment all his titles and decorations, his honors,
his millions, were valueless to him. He had one single idea burning in
his brain. "My poor child! Where is my child?"
At last he reached the Prefecture of Police. But no one was there--the
office had been deserted for some time.
"I am M. Godefroy, deputy from L'Eure--. My little boy is lost in
Paris; a child of four years. I must see the Prefect."
He slipped a louis into the hand of the _concièrge._
The good old soul, a veteran with a gray mustache, less for the sake
of the money than out of compassion for the poor father, led him to
the Prefect's private apartments. M. Godefroy was finally ushered
into the room of the man in whom were centred all his hopes. He was in
evening dress, and wore a monocle; his manner was frigid and rather
pretentious. The distressed father, whose knees trembled through
emotion, sank into an armchair, and, bursting into tears, told of the
loss of his boy--told the story stammeringly and with many breaks, for
his voice was choked by sobs.
The Prefect, who was also father of a family, was inwardly moved at the
sight of his visitor's grief, but he repressed his emotion and assumed
a cold and self-important air.
"You say, sir, that your child has been missing since four o'clock."
"Yes."
"Just when night was falling, confound it. He isn't at all precocious,
speaks very little, doesn't know where he lives, and can't even
pronounce his own name?"
"Unfortunately that is so."
"Not far from Asnières gate? A suspected quarter. But cheer up. We have
a very intelligent _Commissaire de Police_ there. I'll telephone to
him."
* * * * *
The distressed father was left alone for five minutes. How his temples
throbbed and his heart beat!
Then, suddenly, the Prefect reappeared, smiling with satisfaction.
"Found!"
Whereupon M. Godefroy rushed to the Prefect, whose hand he pressed till
that functionary winced with the pain.
"I must acknowledge that we were exceedingly fortunate. The little chap
is blond, isn't he? Rather pale? In blue velvet? Black felt hat, with a
white feather in it?"
"Yes, yes; that's he. That's my little Raoul."
"Well, he's at the house of a poor fellow down in that quarter who
had just been at the police office to make his declaration to the
Commissaire. Here's his address, which I took down: '_Pierron, rue des
Cailloux, Levallois-Perret._' With good horses you may reach your boy
in less than an hour. Certainly, you won't find him in an aristocratic
quarter; his surroundings won't be of the highest. The man who found
him is only a small dealer in vegetables."
But that was of no importance to M. Godefroy, who, having expressed
his gratitude to the Prefect, leaped down the stairs four at a time,
and sprang into his carriage. At that moment he realized how devotedly
he loved his child. As he drove away he no longer thought of little
Raoul's princely education and magnificent inheritance. He was decided
never again to hand over the child entirely to the hands of servants,
and he also made up his mind to devote less time to monetary matters
and the glory of France and attend more to his own. The thought also
occurred to him that France wouldn't be likely to suffer from the
neglect. He had hitherto been ashamed to recognize the existence of an
old-maid sister of his father, but he decided to send for her to his
house. She would certainly shock his lackeys by her primitive manners
and ideas. But what of that? She would take care of his boy, which to
him was of much more importance than the good opinion of his servants.
The financier, who was always in a hurry, never felt so eager to
arrive punctually at a committee meeting as he was to reach the lost
little one. For the first time in his life he was longing through pure
affection to take the child in has arms.
The carriage rolled rapidly along in the clear, crisp night air down
boulevard Malesherbes; and, having crossed the ramparts and passed the
large houses, plunged into the quiet solitude of suburban streets.
When the carriage stopped M. Godefroy saw a wretched hovel, on which
was the number he was seeking; it was the house where Pierron lived.
The door of the house opened immediately, and a big, rough-looking
fellow with red mustache appeared. One of his sleeves was empty. Seeing
the gentleman in the carriage, Pierron said cheerily: "So you are the
little one's father. Don't be afraid. The little darling is quite
safe," and, stepping aside in order to allow M. Godefroy to pass, he
placed his finger on his lips with: "Hush! The little one is asleep!"
Yes, it was a real hovel. By the dim light of a little oil lamp M.
Godefroy could just distinguish a dresser from which a drawer was
missing, some broken chairs, a round table on which stood a beer-mug
which was half empty, three glasses, some cold meat on a plate, and
on the bare plaster of the wall two gaudy pictures--a bird's-eye view
of the Exposition of 1889, with the Eiffel Tower in bright blue, and
the portrait of General Boulanger when a handsome young lieutenant.
This last evidence of weakness of the tenant of the house may well
be excused, since it was shared by nearly everybody in France. The
man took the lamp and went on tiptoe to the corner of the room where,
on a clean bed, two little fellows were fast asleep. In the little
one, around whom the other had thrown a protecting arm, M. Godefroy
recognized his son.
"The youngsters were tired to death, and so sleepy," said Pierron,
trying to soften his rough voice. "I had no idea when you would come,
so gave them some supper and put them to bed, and then I went to make
a declaration at the police office. Zidore generally sleeps up in the
garret, but I thought they would be better here, and that I should be
better able to watch them."
M. Godefroy, however, scarcely heard the explanation. Strangely moved,
he looked at the two sleeping infants on an iron bedstead and covered
with an old blanket which had once been used either in barracks or
hospital. Little Raoul, who was still in his velvet suit, looked so
frail and delicate compared with his companion that the banker almost
envied the latter his brown complexion.
"Is he your boy?" he asked Pierron.
"No," answered he. "I am a bachelor, and don't suppose I shall ever
marry, because of my accident. You see, a dray passed over my arm--that
was all. Two years ago a neighbor of mine died, when that child was
only five years old. The poor mother really died of starvation.
She wove wreaths for the cemeteries, but could make nothing worth
mentioning at that trade--not enough to live. However, she worked for
the child for five years, and then the neighbors had to buy wreaths for
her. So I took care of the youngster. Oh, it was nothing much, and I
was soon repaid. He is seven years old, and is a sharp little fellow,
so he helps me a great deal. On Sundays and Thursdays, and the other
days after school, he helps me push my handcart. Zidore is a smart
little chap. It was he who found your boy."
"What!" exclaimed M. Godefroy--"that child!"
"Oh, he's quite a little man, I assure you. When he left school he
found your child, who was walking on ahead, crying like a fountain.
He spoke to him and comforted him, like an old grandfather. The
difficulty is, that one can't easily understand what your little
one says--English words are mixed up with German and French. So we
couldn't get much out of him, nor could we learn his address. Zidore
brought him to me--I wasn't far away; and then all the old women in the
place came round chattering and croaking like so many frogs, and all
full of advice.
"'Take him to the police,'" said some.
But Zidore protested.
"That would scare him," said he, for like all Parisians, he has no
particular liking for the police--"and besides, your little one didn't
wish to leave him. So I came back here with the child as soon as I
could. They had supper, and then off to bed. Don't they look sweet?"
When he was in his carriage, M. Godefroy had decided to reward the
finder of his child handsomely--to give him a handful of that gold so
easily gained. Since entering the house he had seen a side of human
nature with which he was formerly unacquainted--the brave charity of
the poor in their misery. The courage of the poor girl who had worked
herself to death weaving wreaths to keep her child; the generosity of
the poor cripple in adopting the orphan, and above all, the intelligent
goodness of the little street Arab in protecting the child who was
still smaller than himself--all this touched M. Godefroy deeply and
set him reflecting. For the thought had occurred to him that there
were other cripples who needed to be looked after as well as Pierron,
and other orphans as well as Zidore. He also debated whether it would
not be better to employ his time looking after them, and whether money
might not be put to a better use than merely gaining money. Such was
his reverie as he stood looking at the two sleeping children.
Finally, he turned round to study the features of the greengrocer, and
was charmed by the loyal expression in the face of the man, and his
clear, truthful eyes.
"My friend," said M. Godefroy, "you and your adopted son have rendered
me an immense service. I shall soon prove to you that I am not
ungrateful. But, for to-day--I see that you are not in comfortable
circumstances, and I should like to leave a small proof of my
thankfulness."
But the hand of the cripple arrested that of the banker, which was
diving into his coat-pocket where he kept bank-notes.
"No, sir; no! Anybody else would have done just as we have done. I will
not accept any recompense; but pray don't take offense. Certainly, I
am not rolling in wealth, but please excuse my pride--that of an old
soldier; I have the Tonquin medal--and I don't wish to eat food which I
haven't earned."
"As you like," said the financier; "but an old soldier like you is
capable of something better. You are too good to push a handcart. I
will make some arrangement for you, never fear."
The cripple responded by a quiet smile, and said coldly: "Well, sir, if
you really wish to do something for me--"
"You'll let me care for Zidore, won't you?" cried M. Godefroy, eagerly.
"That I will, with the greatest of pleasure," responded Pierron,
joyfully. "I have often thought about the child's future. He is a sharp
little fellow. His teachers are delighted with him."
Then Pierron suddenly stopped, and an expression came over his face
which M. Godefroy at once interpreted as one of distrust. The thought
evidently was: "Oh, when he has once left us he'll forget us entirely."
"You can safely pick the child up in your arms and take him to the
carriage. He'll be better at home than here, of course. Oh, you needn't
be afraid of disturbing him. He is fast asleep, and you can just pick
him up. He must have his shoes on first, though."
Following Pierron's glance M. Godefroy perceived on the hearth, where
a scanty coke fire was dying out, two pairs of children's shoes--the
elegant ones of Raoul, and the rough ones of Zidore. Each pair
contained a little toy and a package of bonbons.
"Don't think about that," said Pierron in an abashed tone. "Zidore put
the shoes there. You know children still believe in Christmas and the
child Jesus, whatever scholars may say about fables; so, as I came back
from the _commissaire_, as I didn't know whether your boy would have to
stay here to-night, I got those things for them both."
At which the eyes of M. Godefroy, the freethinker, the hardened
capitalist, and _blasé_ man of the world, filled with tears.
He rushed out of the house, but returned in a minute with his arms full
of the superb mechanical horse, the box of leaden soldiers, and the
rest of the costly playthings bought by him in the afternoon, and which
had not even been taken out of the carriage.
"My friend, my dear friend," said he to the green grocer, "see, these
are the presents which Christmas has brought to my little Raoul. I want
him to find them here, when he awakens, and to share them with Zidore,
who will henceforth be his playmate and friend. You'll trust me now,
won't you? I'll take care both of Zidore and of you, and then I shall
ever remain in your debt, for not only have you found my boy, but you
have also reminded me, who am rich and lived only for myself, that
there are other poor who need to be looked after. I swear by these two
sleeping children, I won't forget them any longer."
Such is the miracle which happened on the 24th of December of last
year, ladies and gentlemen, at Paris, in the full flow of modern
egotism. It doesn't sound likely--that I own; and I am compelled to
attribute this miraculous event to the influence of the Divine Child
who came down to earth nearly nineteen centuries ago to command men to
love one another.
--François Coppée.
=The Peace of Yesterdays=
It was a wet, unpleasant evening in February, and little Miss Hicks,
hurrying homeward with her chop for to-morrow's dinner, felt wet and
unpleasant, too. Her jacket was too thin for such weather, and her
worn shoes, splashing over the muddy pavement, made her dread the
twinges of rheumatism which would surely follow. She paused a moment
for breath beneath the sheltering awning of a book-store, and, as she
shook her dripping skirts, she glanced into the gaily lighted windows.
It happened to be the evening before Valentine's day, and the windows
of the shop were filled with the usual "tokens of affection"; riotous
cupids with garlands of roses and forget-me-nots, reposing on beds of
celluloid; lovely scrolls in delicate pinks and blues with amorous,
gilded verses inscribed on them; wonderful creations in silks of
brilliant hue, at which all the small girls of the neighborhood gazed
covetously. On one side lay a heap of comic valentines in ugly, staring
reds and yellows, but Miss Hicks never noticed them, for she had eyes
only for the gorgeous visions on the other side. As she looked at them,
a flood of suddenly-released memories came into her head which made her
cheeks for a moment grow youthfully pink and her faded eyes glow like
stars.
The door of the shop closed with a final bang, and the lights went out
suddenly. But Miss Hicks only smiled happily to herself, as she hurried
through the remaining squares to her own dingy little house in dingy
little Lombard street. The dim street lamp showed a sign, battered and
discolored, of "Miss M. Hicks, Fashionable Milliner," and as the owner
of the shop opened the creaking door, stepped inside, and lighted a
lamp, a few old-fashioned hats and bonnets could be faintly discerned
on the narrow counter, while in the one small showcase were sundry
faded ribbons and drooping birds.
"It's a wonder to me," her nearest neighbors would often say, "how
that Miss Hicks manages to get along; kith nor kin she don't seem to
have none, and the customers she's got ain't enough to keep body and
soul together. But I've heard as how she gets an annuity from some
dead relatives and that probably helps her out, if she's real good at
scrimping and saving."
But in spite Of the solicitude of her neighbors, they never found out
any certain facts about the little woman in rusty black, who was always
either sitting at her window, sewing on the hats of her few customers,
or else taking a solitary stroll through the dingy, narrow streets. She
went walking usually when the daylight was nearly gone, for in a timid,
childish way she shrank from observation, and preferred to commune with
herself rather than join her neighbors in friendly gossip.
Generally she liked to be slow about preparing and eating her meals,
for in this way they took up quite a part of the long, lonely day; but
to-night she was in such a hurry about her few preparations and did
everything with such an air of abstraction that she nearly amputated a
finger while cutting bread, and entirety forgot to put anything in the
tea-pot except hot water. When at last the dishes had been washed and
carefully put away, each in its own proper place, when the sleek white
cat had been given a generous saucer of milk, then Miss Hicks, with
an air of trembling and hesitating eagerness, placed a chair against
the old-fashioned cupboard in the living-room, and reaching up, to the
peril of life and limb, drew forth from its inmost recesses a square
pasteboard box. She carefully wiped off the dust on its surface--it
was probably the only dusty article in her whole establishment--and,
carrying the box to the kitchen table, deposited it there with a loving
little pat.
But now, when her intentions seemed practically accomplished, something
held her back; it seemed an though invisible fingers were closing over
her own to keep her from opening the box, from prying into the things
which she had not had the courage to look at for such long, long years.
She thought, with a shiver, of these years. Fifteen of them! And so
clear does memory sometimes become that Miss Hicks could distinctly
remember when she had placed the last letter in the box--her "Treasure
Box" she had often called it lovingly--and as she thought of all that
had happened since she had put that letter in, of all the loneliness
and desolation of those fifteen years, she bent her head on the little
green box and cried softly.
After a while she raised her head, and with a quick flash of
determination in her grey eyes, took the lid from the box and turned
the contents out on the table. On top of the heap lay several yellowed
envelopes, quaintly embossed, with "Miss Mary Ellen Hicks" written on
them in faded, boyish writing. With a caressing touch Miss Hicks put
these aside and picked up a bent tintype of a boy with laughing eyes
and a tender, pleasant mouth. At this she looked a long time, at first
with a little answering smile for the smile in the picture, then with
misty reminiscent eyes. More modern valentines came next in the pile;
much more elaborate, too, these were, and the verses seemed chosen by
a more discriminating eye. She put them all aside, with a sigh and a
loving look for each, and picked up the one at the very bottom; the
envelope bore a western postmark and was not elaborate nor fanciful as
the others had been, nor were the contents anything more than a sheet
of paper folded around the picture of a man--a man who, in spite of
the lines of weariness in his face, had still the boyish eyes and kind
mouth of the other picture. On the paper was written, in a strong,
angular hand:
"Dear heart, try to think of me and remember me to-day, even though
I am so far away from home and you. I am sorry that I have no other
valentine to send you, but there is more love in this scrap of
paper than in all the valentines in creation. I am thinking just
now how, a year ago, you and I were sitting in the dear old home
parlor, making valentines for the neighbors' children, and when I
think of the difference between then and now, I feel as sad and
depressed as the wailing pines around me. I have had such strange
premonitions to-day, too; I seem to see such a long vista of years
before me and you do not seem to have a share in any of them. Dear
heart, I want you to promise me that you will never forget me, no
matter where I may be, whether I am living or dead. If I know this
it will take away, in part at least, my loneliness and my feeling
of desertion on this desolate ranch. Good-bye, dear, and God bless
you.
Your Dan."
The paper dropped from Miss Hicks' nerveless fingers as she remembered
that first long year of separation--a lonely year, even though it was
she herself who had urged Dan to be independent of his rich, crotchety
old uncle and to seek his own fortune away somewhere, so that he might
be the man she wanted him to be. She remembered achingly how long
she had waited for another letter, at first with eager anticipation,
later with dread; how slowly time had passed after that tender little
valentine note, and how one day some of her own letters came back to
her, marked unclaimed. And then she thought of the time, several years
later, when her mother had died and when she felt for the first time
the old grief of utter loneliness and misery, and the desolation of
those months came over her again, in one great sickening wave that made
her shake from head to foot; she recalled the days that followed, full
of visits from kind and condoling neighbors, who gradually let her
alone when they saw how much she desired it; the nights, full of grief
and unsatisfied longing, when she gave way unrestrainedly to the sorrow
which was pent up during the day.
But--and Miss Hicks straightened up with a proud little smile, though
her lips still trembled--at all events she had remained faithful to
her promise; though doubts had often assailed her, she had kept the
tryst bravely, and she comforted herself often by thinking, when she
felt especially tired and alone, that if Dan were living, he would
surely find his way back to her some day, and if he were dead she had
a childish little feeling of relief that he was watching over her and
protecting her all the time.
The clock struck eleven slow, even strokes, and Miss Hicks, in
amazement at the lateness of the hour, hastily put the valentines in
the box, and with one last look, set it back on the shelf, and went to
bed. She tossed restlessly for a long time, for her thoughts and the
recollections they had awakened were sadder than usual. But still she
felt glad that at last she had had the courage to call back openly the
memories that she had striven to put aside for so long. And when she
did finally fall asleep, her dreams made her thin lips part in happy
curves, and caused her to utter now and then deep, unconscious sighs of
content.
The next morning was sunshiny, with no trace of yesterday's gloom, and
the little street seemed to have become dry as if by magic, and to have
lost for the time being its dinginess in the sunshine poured out on it
so liberally. Miss Hicks sat at her window, busied with re-trimming an
old bonnet; but there was no reflection of sunshine in her face. The
reaction due to what she had done last night had come over her, and the
memories which had seemed sweet then were unpleasant and bitter this
morning. All her life, she thought sadly, was made up of unrealised
hopes and ungranted desires; whatever had been dear to her had been
taken away when she most needed it; every disaster and trouble had come
upon her when she was least ready to meet it. And now she thought with
a sigh, she had become too old to ever have it different; it seemed to
her that never had her eyes been so lifeless, her mouth so lined and
careworn, her hair so thin and grey as they had appeared this morning
in her little mirror. What an unfair thing the world was anyway,
she thought, as she bit off her thread reflectively and watched the
mail-carrier coming briskly across the street. What a lot of mail those
people next door did get! Even that was not divided fairly.
But--and she stared in astonishment--the mail-carrier was actually
coming to her house; at this very minute he was climbing her rickety
little steps and knocking at her battered little door. She hastily
dropped her work and hurried to open the latch.
"It must be the wrong place," she began deprecatingly, but he shoved a
bulky envelope through the crack in the door and with a pleasant "Guess
it's yours, all right; good morning," was off again before she could
demonstrate further. It certainly must be hers, for it said, "Miss Mary
Ellen Hicks, Lombard Street, Midville," in big, bold characters on the
envelope; it was an embossed one, too, with gay cupids and garlands of
roses on the border. Miss Hicks looked at it wonderingly at first; then
she smiled with the pleased anticipation of a child, and she prepared
to cut the envelope carefully, carefully. She looked at the post-mark,
but it was too blurred to be plainly seen--and just then a thought came
to her that made her grow suddenly white and tremble. No, no, it was
impossible; but what if--? Such things had happened, many and many a
time, and just because such things never had happened to her was no
reason that they might not occur now. She was almost afraid to see what
the envelope held, and she turned it over hesitatingly in her hand; but
finally with shaking fingers she cut the paper, blew it open, and drew
out the folded paper inside. Expectantly she unfolded it, her heart
beating high, her lips parted in anticipation. Then suddenly daylight
seemed to leave her, and when the mistiness had cleared away, she found
herself staring at a hideous cartoon in flaring red and green, of an
old maid with cork-screw curls, a thin, angular figure, and a long
hooked nose, while underneath was boldly printed:
"You're the meanest old maid in the city--
With that we'll all surely agree;
We know you once thought you were pretty,
But no trace of it now can we see.
And, say, have you e'er learned the meaning
Of sweetheart, or lover, or beau?
One look at your face, and we needn't
Take the trouble to hear you say 'no'."
The cutting doggerel seemed imprinted in letters of fire on Miss
Hicks's brain; it burned through her and made her heart beat nearly to
suffocation. But the two small boys who were waiting at the corner,
were grievously disappointed; they expected at least to see her come
out off her house in wrath, and demand justice somewhere, as several
others of their victims had done. They waited for nearly an hour; then,
when a mate called them across the street, they ran off with him,
forgetting their disappointment altogether after a few moments of play.
But the numb little figure in the milliner's shop had not forgotten; at
noon she was still sitting limply in her chair, gazing out at nothing
with burning, brilliant eyes, that now had knowledge in their depths
where before there had been only wonder. Her mouth quivered pitifully,
though she tried bravely to make it firm and resolute. She had had a
glimpse into the Present, harsh and unsympathetic, and she shrank back
again into the Past, where she had been much more happy and contented.
The To-days were not for her; from henceforth, she knew, all her solace
and companionship, all her brief happiness and pleasures, all her
longings and desires--the rest of her life, in short--must be lived in
the quiet, peace-bringing Yesterdays.
--Katherine Kurz.
=A Christmas Legend=
There was great commotion in the forest, for the south wind, heavy
with cloying fragrance of the jasmine, had been the bearer of wondrous
tidings. The forest sang with joy, for, after these many years, it was
to have a share in the great festival of the Master's birthday. This,
was the news that the south wind had brought, and he had told, too, how
an angel would come to choose the tree whom the Master had most loved.
"It is I whom the Master loves," spoke the oak, rearing his great head
in the still air. "I heard the angels sing at his birth; and often has
he rested in the shade at my feet. It is fitting that I be chosen."
"Nay, old oak," cried the palm, shaking her plumes in eager denial.
"Whose branches did the multitude wave at the Master's entry into
Jerusalem? I have been already chosen!" There were many in the forest
who nodded their approval to this speech of the palm's, but the olive
sighed, and whispered:
"I have watched with him in Gethsemane, and he has wet my feet with his
tears."
"But I," cried the cedar, stretching his tense arms to the listening
stars, "I heard his dying groans, and my heart is stained with his
blood; it was upon me that his body was nailed--me, who watched over
his boyhood on the plains of Nazareth!" The forest was very still as
the cedar finished, and only the chestnut ventured to speak--shaking
out her broad leaves, and distilling everywhere the heavy fragrance of
her blossoms.
"I am ready for the feast," she said complacently. "Last night, while
all of you were sleeping, an angel came, and lit these candles of mine."
Thus spoke among themselves the rulers of the forest, while the south
wind played among their branches; nor did they notice the tiny tree
that listened at their feet, and crooned lullabies to the drowsy birds.
The winged months flew by. In the forest, the days passed as before;
and, after the south wind had sung its farewell to the tree-tops, the
forest forgot the tidings which the breeze had brought. Only one tree
remembered; the lullaby which it sang to the birds nestled in its arms
was of the wonderful birthday festival of the Master.
Finally came the North Wind, calling to the forest to prepare for
its long sleep. The trees, one by one, cast off their brilliant
raiment--the cedar, last of all--and stood gaunt and naked under the
dark sky. Only the tiny tree in the shadow of the oak did not heed,
and bravely defied the fierce jestings of the North Wind. "Oho' little
tree," he roared, whirling the snowflakes through its tiny boughs,
"doff your green garment and go to sleep! Or, perhaps, you are waiting
for the angel?" Then the forest laughed long and loud. "Little tree,"
it jeered, "cling to the oak; the angel will step upon you!"
But even as it jeered, a great light broke through the forest; the
trees were afraid and bowed themselves as before a storm. And when they
lifted up their heads, behold! the little tree stood straight and tall
in its robes of green, and in its topmost branch there gleamed a star.
--Ida F. Treat.