the nozzle of which had been introduced into the larynx, till such
time as the breathing should become automatic and the rise and fall
of the lungs regular. At a given signal from the doctor, Burnham
turned on the current, the electrodes having been previously placed
in position, and, at the same instant, the chest expanded. I plied
my bellows as the breast rose, and a second afterward it collapsed,
the discharged air rushing back through the larynx with a whistling
sound. Three seconds afterward the chest rose automatically again,
and again I assisted its rise by inflating the lungs as before. This
was kept up for some dozen or more respirations, occupying in all
about two minutes.
Meantime, the doctor was intently engaged with a syringe and
graduating glass at the left arm of the body. So absorbed was he in
his occupation that he seemed oblivious to everything else. Suddenly
he sprang to his feet, with an exclamation which startled us.
“We have won!” he shouted; “see! the blood is circulating.”
I looked down at the arm, and, sure enough, blood was spurting in a
thin jet from the lower extremity of the vein which the doctor had
severed. In my excitement I had withdrawn the bellows from the
mouth, but there was no further use for artificial respiration, as
the chest was now rising and falling automatically and in regular
cadence. The doctor now tied up the severed vein, sewed up the
incision in the arm, and, after dressing the patient--for such he
must now be called--in a suit of Burnham’s underwear, we lifted him
into the bureau-bed that had been prepared at the side of the studio
next the fire.
“There is nothing more to be done,” said the doctor, simply; “he
will wake by and by of his own accord, and will then need some
nourishment. Soup and stimulants will be the proper thing to
administer at first.”
Burnham went out and returned presently with a tray containing the
desired refreshments. We now waited anxiously for the awakening,
which must sooner or later come. The breathing, which had hitherto
been labored and stertorous, was becoming easier, the color was
returning to the cheeks, and the occasional twitching of the muscles
showed that our strange patient was on the point of awaking. At
length he turned on his side, opened his eyes, stared fixedly at us,
and then uttered an exclamation in some foreign tongue. Burnham got
up, wheeled a table to the side of the bed, set the tray of
refreshments upon it, and motioned him to help himself, at the same
time pouring out a glass of wine. Here Dr. Dunne interposed.
“No,” he said, smiling; “after a fast of so many thousand years I
certainly must prescribe hot water as an initiative. It is
absolutely necessary for the stomach to begin with.”
The hot water was brought, and our patient, evidently comprehending
that he was under medical treatment, shifted his position in bed so
as to recline upon his elbow, took the tumbler which was handed him,
and, after eying it critically, raised it to his lips and tasted the
contents. A shade of surprise and faint protest passed across his
features as he elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and
swallowed the potion.
“Now let him attack the viands if he wants to,” said the doctor, as
our guest’s eye roved somewhat greedily, I thought, over the table.
Burnham pushed the tray a little nearer, no second invitation being
necessary, and the bowl of soup that had been brought, together with
a couple of glasses of old Madeira, speedily disappeared. This duty
having been performed, our guest became voluble. He gesticulated and
spoke, and, to judge by the inflexions of his voice and the
character of his gestures, he was, I should say, appealing to us for
an explanation of his presence there and of the strange objects
which met his gaze. It need scarcely be said that we could not
understand one word of what he was saying, though the voice was
clear and mellow and the syllables of his words as distinct and
sonorous as ancient Greek, though they bore no other resemblance to
that language.
“Suppose we bring him pen and ink and see if he can write,”
suggested Burnham, and the idea struck us as a peculiarly happy one.
Pen, ink, and paper were accordingly set upon the table. Our patient
eyed the articles curiously for a moment or two, took up the pen,
and examined the steel nib with an expression of critical approval,
then took up a sheet of paper, examined its texture, and smiled, at
the same time spreading it out before him. It was evident that he
comprehended what was required of him, for he dipped the pen into
the ink and wrote a few words upon the paper, guiding the pen,
however, from right to left, according to Oriental usage. The
characters partook more of the Chaldaic, or ancient Sanscrit, than
any other type. As it was, none of us could make them out. Our guest
watched our efforts at deciphering with an amused smile, but when
one of our daily papers was handed him by Burnham, this quickly
changed to an expression of rapt attention and intense interest. He
did not, however, handle the sheet like a savage, but like one who
knew the object of it, examining the words and letters with the
closest attention, evidently to see whether he could gain any clew
to their meaning. After a minute or two he gave up the task, and
then, tapping his forehead with a tired expression, smiled at us,
lay back on his pillow, and was soon fast asleep.
“He will be all right by evening,” remarked the doctor; “and then,”
turning to Burnham, “what will you do with him? Introduce him to the
Academy of Sciences, I suppose?”
“Not just yet,” returned Burnham; “I have no objection to some
inkling of our wonderful prize getting out--our friend here,”
alluding to me, “will, no doubt, attend to that--but I certainly
shall not bring him before the public in any way, nor even introduce
him to our scientific men, till I have educated him to some little
knowledge of our language. There will, I think, be no difficulty
about that. He is evidently a man of superior intelligence, and I
shall go right to work in the same way as if he was any ordinary
foreigner cast upon our shores with no knowledge of our language and
I myself equally ignorant of his. It is merely giving names of
objects, he learning my name for the object, I his. In that manner
we shall speedily arrive at a solution of the all-absorbing question
who this remarkable being is whom we have rescued from the jaws of
death, and who, to all intents and purposes, has been dead for--who
can tell?--how many ages past.”
The events I have here detailed occurred on the ninth of August
last. Since that time, my friend Burnham has been enthusiastically
engaged in carrying out the project which he mapped out on the day
of the resuscitation of his remarkable patient and guest. His tailor
was called in, and, when Mr. Kourban Balanok, as the stranger calls
himself, left Burnham’s studio three days after, he did so as a
nineteenth-century gentleman, and is now installed in Burnham’s
house as one of the family. People may have noticed the young,
handsome, and distinguished stranger to be seen occasionally walking
arm-in-arm with Burnham on Kearny or Market Street, but none would
guess that he had lain in the North Polar ice in the neighborhood of
ten thousand years. Such is the case, however, and, as he is fast
acquiring an intimate knowledge of the English language, we may
confidently look forward to the appearance, in the near future, of a
detailed account of the economy of the prehistoric world, and of the
vast cataclysm which swamped it and left Mr. Kourban Balanok
embedded in the ice.
LEAVES ON THE RIVER PASIG
By W. O. McGeehan
The Boulong _casco_ lay on the Quiapo Market, which is on the left
bank of the Pasig, just below the suspension-bridge. The Chinese
junk--tradition says--was modeled after a whimsical emperor’s shoe,
consequently the _cascos_ of the Philippines, being really junks
without sails, are not very dainty bits of naval architecture. As a
rule, they are not accorded the dignity of a name; but this one was
known as the “Boulong casco,” because it was owned and manned by
members of one family. Santiago Boulong was steersman, his three
sons were polemen, and Simplicia, the daughter, was _el
capitan_--her father said, affectionately. Their permanent home was
a little _nipa_-thatch shelter at the stern of the vessel.
The men had gone ashore shortly after the mooring--the father on
business, the sons on pleasure bent--and Simplicia, much to her
disgust, was left on board. She was a Tagalo girl, of the
light-complexioned type, pretty even when judged by our standards,
of which fact she was aware.
“The river, the river,” she said to herself, petulantly, “always the
river. I was born on the river, and I have been going up and down
the river all my life. When we come to Manila I may go ashore for a
few hours only, and then the river again--and the lake. And Ramon is
a fool!”
It was a clear, warm night, and the rippling water of the Pasig
glistened in the moonlight, so that she could see the leaves rush by
in clusters. Ramon had said: “Think of me when you see the leaves on
the river--the bright green leaves from the dear lake country. It
seems sad to think that they must float down past the city where the
water is fouled, and then out--far out--to be lost on the big salt
sea.” But Ramon was always saying queer things that she could not
understand.
The murmur of drowsy voices came from the crowded huts of the
market-place. Oh, how long till morning! She wanted to buy some bits
of finery there, and then to stroll through the city, especially
along the Escolta, where there were stores that exhibited splendors
from all countries. She hoped that one of her brothers would hire a
_carametta_ the next evening, and take her to the Lunetta, where the
wealthy of Manila congregated to enjoy the cool night air and the
concert. A band of Americanos played there every evening.
They were wonderful men, these Americano soldiers, much taller than
Filipinos or Spaniards, and many of them had blue eyes and hair of
the color of gold. The pride of kings was in their stride, and they
looked as though they feared nothing.
Farther on down the river at the Alhambra Café, where the Spanish
officers once gathered to hear the music of Spain, the orchestra
played a new air that delighted her. There was a burst of cheering.
The music was “Dixie,” and the demonstration was made by some
Tennessee volunteers, who always gave something reminiscent of the
old “rebel yell” whenever they heard it. From the Cuartel
Infanteria, across the river, the American bugles began to shrill a
“tattoo.” Their music was wonderful--everything pertaining to these
big, bold men was wonderful, she thought.
Something bumped against a side of the _casco_, and Simplicia
hurried over to order away a supposed ladrone. She leaned over the
side with such abruptness that the wooden comb slipped from her
heavy mass of black hair. It fell a dusky curtain, and brushed the
upturned face of a man. He was not a little brown Filipino, but a
tall Americano, fair and yellow-haired. He laughed a soft, pleasant
laugh. She drew herself backward with a frightened cry, but his eyes
held hers. The man was standing in a small canoe, steadying his
craft by holding on to the _casco_.
“_Buenas noches_,” he said, smiling. He spoke Spanish, but not like
a Spaniard or a Tagalo. Simplicia smiled, faintly. She knew that she
should go into the _nipa_ cabin, but this handsome man looked so
kind and--Ramon was a fool. And her father and brothers were
selfish, and----
So Simplicia returned the salutation, and stood leaning over the
bulwark tasting the delirious delight of her first flirtation. The
man--he was a college boy until the United States Government gave
him a suit of khaki and the right to bear the former
designation--thrilled with joy at the delicious novelty of the
situation. He was in a city that was at once the tropics and the
Orient, and over which hung the glamour of departed mediæval days.
For several hundred years guitars had tinkled on that river, and
voices had been lifted to laticed windows. The air was laden with
ghosts of everything but common sense and scruples.
A bugle across the river caused the man to recollect that he was
under certain restraint. “I must go,” he said, but he did not
release his hold on the _casco_.
Simplicia’s eyes were big and bright in the moonlight. He stretched
out one arm and drew her face toward him. She tore herself away, and
stood breathing hurriedly through parted lips.
“_Mañana por la noche_,” said the soldier. He plied the paddle
vigorously, and the canoe glided away. But he looked back,
longingly, for Simplicia’s lips were very soft and warm.
She stood gazing after him till the canoe vanished into the shadow
of the Cuartel Infanteria. The unseen bugle softly wailed “taps,”
the call that bids the soldier rest. It is also sounded over graves.
* * * * *
The sun beat down fiercely on the Pasig. Canoes toiled up and
skimmed down the river. Lumbering _cascos_, their crews naked to
their waists, were poled painfully along. The Quiapo Market was
astir with a babble of tongues, the barking of dogs, and the
incessant challenge of hundreds of game-cocks. The little brown
people bought, sold, and bargained with the full strength of their
lungs.
Simplicia, as purser of the _casco_, was in the market purchasing
provisions, but she spent most of her time near the stall of a
Chinese vender of fabrics. After much haggling, she became the
possessor of a dainty bodice of silk and piña cloth.
Most of the girls who visited the market-place seemed to be drawn to
that spot, for there Simplicia met a friend who had left the lake
country a little later than herself.
“Ramon will come down the river to-night,” said the friend,
breathlessly, delighted to carry a message of that sort. “He has
written something that he thinks they may print in _La Libertad_.
Isn’t that wonderful? You must feel so proud of him. For a man to be
able to write at all is wonderful--but for the papers!”
Apparently there were no words in the Tagalo dialect strong enough
to express the girl’s admiration. Simplicia tossed her head,
loosening the hair, a frequent happening. She caught the heavy
tresses quickly, and almost forgot for an instant everything but the
last time they had fallen.
“Are you not pleased?” asked the other girl, in astonishment. She
was dark, and not pretty from any point of view.
“Oh, yes,” drawled Simplicia, “but Ramon is very tedious sometimes,
and the lake country is very dreary. We will go into the city this
afternoon and see the Americanos.”
They saw many Americanos--State volunteers clad in blue shirts and
khaki trousers. The city was full of them. They occupied all the
barracks formerly the quarters of the Spanish soldiers, and they
crowded the drinking-resorts. Along the Calle Real they came upon
companies drilling, and on the Lunetta they saw an entire regiment
on dress-parade.
Simplicia, though she scanned every soldier’s face, did not see the
stranger of the previous night, nor did she see a face that seemed
nearly as handsome.
“They say,” mused the other girl, “that the men of Aguinaldo will
drive these Americanos out of Manila if they do not go of their own
accord soon.”
Simplicia laughed scornfully, and pointed toward the troops. The men
were in battalion front, standing at “present,” and the sun
glistened on a thousand bayonets.
“But there are only a few Americanos and there are many thousands of
Filipinos,” said the girl.
“The Americanos will take what they want and nothing can stop them,”
announced Simplicia, decisively. “Let us go to our _cascos_.”
* * * * *
The twilight gathered on the river. In the north the sky was lit by
continuous flashes of lightning. Myriads of stars were overhead, and
the Southern Cross was viceroy of the heavens, for the moon had not
yet come into her kingdom. The water noisily gurgled by, and
Simplicia waited. Which would come first, the tedious Filipino
school-master lover or the stranger? Would the Americano come again?
She watched every canoe that passed, but they were all going up or
down. The moon appeared and clearly revealed the river’s surface.
Simplicia fixed her eyes on the shadow of the Cuartel Infanteria.
Something emerged from it and glided rapidly through the stream. It
was a canoe, and it was being paddled with strong, sure strokes
toward her. Her heart beat tumultuously, and she almost cried out in
her delight.
He came, and, fastening his canoe, swung himself aboard the _casco_.
Her arms were about his neck in an instant, and her beautiful
tresses escaped the comb again.
They sat in the shade of the _nipa_ thatch talking in low tones. His
arm was round her waist. Her head rested on his shoulder. He puffed
with deep breaths of enjoyment a cigarette that she had daintily lit
for him. The intoxication of the country was in his brain--the devil
that whispers, “There is nothing but pleasure, and no time but now.”
The _plunk-plunk_ of a guitar close by startled them both. Simplicia
trembled violently.
“It is a foolish man who is always singing to me,” she explained.
A clear, musical voice rose in a song, and the soldier checked a
question to listen, for the voice and the song charmed him from the
first note. The song was in Spanish, and, though he was by no means
perfect in the language, he caught the meaning and spirit of it. It
ran something to this effect:
Bright are the leaves and the blossoms that grow in the
beautiful lake country,
They fill the place with brilliance of things celestial.
Some of them drop or are thrown to the river,
Helpless they drift on its swift running surface.
Down past the city through sliminess foul,
Out they are whirled to waters eternal
Lost and forgotten forever and ever.
Blossom I cherish; I’ll hold thee.
Never shalt thou leave the lake country.
But my heart, it is sad for the leaves on the Pasig.
The last words died on the air like the sob or the faint cry of a
passing spirit. The soldier sat mute, like one bewitched by fairy
music. Simplicia’s lips, pressed against his cheek, brought him back
to her.
“I do not care for him. On my soul, I do not!” she whispered. She
was pretty, and her arm tightened coaxingly about his neck. His
better nature was conquered, and the devil in his blood reigned
supreme. The situation suddenly seemed highly amusing, and he
laughed a suppressed laugh of recklessness. To be serenaded by a
native poet while the arm of the troubadour’s lady-love encircled
his neck--verily he would have a great tale to tell some day.
There was a faint sound of a footfall on the deck of the _casco_.
The soldier disengaged himself. A face peeped in through an opening
in the thatch, and the American struck it a sharp blow with his
fist. He would have rushed after the intruder, but Simplicia held
him.
“It is only a foolish man,” she said, “do not follow him. It would
make trouble.”
“I would not bring you any trouble,” he said. “What is the matter?
You tremble.”
“It is nothing,” she replied. “I love you.”
The soldier’s conscience smote him. He swore that he loved her, and
tried to believe that it was true. She seemed almost happy again.
“To-morrow the _casco_ goes up to the lake again, and we will be
gone three days. Oh, that is so long!”
“Very long,” he assented.
“But you will wait and think of me always.”
“Yes, I will watch the leaves on the river----”
She shuddered.
“No! no! Do not speak of them. _Madre de Dios!_ I hate the river,
and I hate the leaves it drags along. I think I hate everything but
you.”
The soldier was young, and this was his first experience with
hysteria and woman, which combination often disturbs even wiser
heads. It disturbed him exceedingly, but he soothed her finally with
the wildest vows and many kisses. He kissed a tress of her long hair
as he stepped from the _casco’s_ poling platform into his canoe.
For the second time she watched the canoe till it glided into the
shadows. Then she shivered violently, chilled to the bone.
* * * * *
A sergeant of a certain regiment of United States volunteers was
prowling along the brink of the Pasig, outside the Cuartel
Infanteria’s walls, looking for a pet monkey that had disappeared.
Something in the long grass caught his eye, and he stopped. He
stepped back quickly and hurried around the corner of the wall,
returning with four soldiers.
He parted the grass with his arms, and they saw the dead body of a
Filipino girl. Her face was concealed by a disordered mass of black
hair, and, pinned to her breast by a rudely fashioned knife that was
buried to the hilt, was a miniature insurgent flag.
They tenderly bore the body to the pathway, and the hair fell from
the face. One of the soldiers let go his hold and tottered to the
ground.
“Harrison’s a softy,” grunted one of the men. “Take hold, sergeant.
He’s fainted, I guess.”
The form was placed in an unused storeroom. When the news went round
the men came to view it, not out of curiosity, but to show respect
such as they would pay to their own dead.
“This is the way I make it out,” said the sergeant, sagely. “The
girl was killed by Aguinaldo’s gang, and it must have been because
she spoke a good word for our people.”
“And we’ll take it out of their hides when the time comes,” said one
of the soldiers, snapping his jaws together, which resolution the
regiment unanimously adopted. Even the chaplain refrained from
chiding when he heard of it. He knew his flock.
There being no way of finding out anything about the girl, a fund
was quickly collected and arrangements made for the funeral. Several
hundred soldiers followed the hearse to the cemetery at El Paco.
The regimental chaplain read the regulation burial service, while
the men stood with bared heads. They placed at the head of the
freshly made mound a plain board that read:
FOUND IN THE PASIG.
After the last soldier had gone, a cowering thing walked unsteadily
up to the grave, and, kneeling beside it, laid down a cluster of
green leaves.
“By God! I did love her. I did,” he muttered, continuously. He drew
a pencil from his pocket and scratched her name on the board:
“Simplicia.”
And his youth was buried there.
THE GREAT EUCHRE BOOM
By Charles Fleming Embree
To Euchretown, Los Angeles County, came Mr. Stoker and his wife. He
bought ranches, and, strikingly dressed, drove about in the
rubber-tired buggies of real-estate agents; while Mrs. Stoker, a
handsome young woman, sniffed the social air. Just what should she
do to win, with _éclat_, the commanding place in the local feminine
view? For her no slow progress to social supremacy! Rather the
Napoleonic sweeping away of rivals.
At that stage of its rise from a desert to a paradise Euchretown was
belied by its name. A sombreness hovered over the thought of the
place; the method of life was Puritanic. Euchre? One would have
thought there was never a deck in the town.
“I don’t want to be un-Christian,” snapped the wife of Reverend
Hummel; “but I wish that Mrs. Stoker had never stuck her foot in
this town.”
Mrs. Hummel was out of place linked to a preacher. Fairly well had
she clothed her mind in the prevalent Puritanic mood; but in her
heart she was different. As for social leaders, she was the one, and
she knew it.
“Why, Jennie,” complained the Reverend Hummel, a pale gentleman with
eyes that ever bespoke a receptive surprise at his debts; “your
words ring evil. And then the term you employed--stuck. How, pray,
could Mrs. Stoker stick her foot?”
At this moment the maid (employed despite the mortgaged condition of
Hummel’s real estate) ushered in Mrs. Banker Wheelock.
“And _have_ you heard the news about Mrs. Stoker!” cried Mrs.
Wheelock, as Mr. Hummel, wandering away, hummed “Throw Out the Life
Line” in a fumbling voice. “Oh, haven’t you got an invitation?”
“What is it?” said Mrs. Hummel, darkly.
“A euchre-party! Everybody!”
Mrs. Hummel’s arms dropped limp.
“But, of course,” she said, “nobody will go.”
“They’re all wild about it!” ejaculated Mrs. Wheelock; “Mrs. Stoker
is said to have struck the psychological moment.”
Mrs. Hummel started up.
“There hasn’t been a card-party for years!” cried she; “where’ll she
get her decks? Does she carry around a trunk full? Or will she clean
out the saloons? But----” and the tears leaped up to her lashes, “I
wouldn’t be un-Christian about it.”
Mrs. Wheelock arose and laid her hands on Mrs. Hummel’s arm.
“Of course, dear, you know the only reason you wouldn’t be invited
is that you’re the preacher’s wife,” soothed she; and then, with a
puzzled air: “That _must_ be the reason.”