THE EDITOR'S SANCTUM.
"Justice has never been done to the month of months," said Hugh,
coming in to the breakfast-table one morning, bringing a spray of
roses with the dew shining on their fragrant petals. "I propose we
celebrate the day, the fifteenth of June; the most perfect day of the
most perfect month of this most perfect year of our lives. Who knows
where we shall be before another June comes round? 'We have lived and
loved together through many a changing year; we have shared each
other's pleasures and wept each other's tears.' But _tempus fugit_,
oh, how fast! and before we know it we shall all be old! Friends, fill
your coffee-cups to the brim, and let us resolve to celebrate."
"A picnic!" said Gem.
"A torch-light procession and fireworks!" said Tom.
"A croquet-party!" said Sibyl.
"A dance!" said Bessie.
"An editor's sanctum," said Hugh.
The novelty of this suggestion made a favorable impression. "Explain
yourself, Hugh," said Aunt Faith; "I am afraid your project is too
large for the field."
"Oh, no, Aunt Faith, it is not so large as you fancy. There is a store
of hidden genius in this family, and I propose, to bring it out and
let it scintillate in the light of day! We will invite a few friends
to spend the evening, give them notice that they must bring to the
'Sanctum' an original contribution, in prose or verse as they please,
and at nine o'clock we, will all assemble in the parlor to hear them
read aloud. I will act as editor, receive manuscripts, throw them into
a basket, and when the appointed time comes, take them out and read
them aloud, as they happen to come."
"Splendid!" said Tom; "I'll go right away and begin mine."
"Oh, I can never think of anything to say!" said Gem in a despairing
voice.
"I have never noticed any difficulty of that kind in you, Pussy," said
Hugh, laughing.
"Oh, I mean to _write_, of course," said Gem; "I don't know what I
shall do unless you'll take my last composition?"
"Anything you like as long as it's original," said Hugh.
So Gem went upstairs with a lightened heart and the others discussed
the list of invitations.
"We will have old Mr. Gay," began Bessie; "he is always an addition. I
wish he would stay here permanently instead of going back to Boston."
"A Boston man will never forsake the 'Rub,'" said Hugh; "that is too
much to expect. We will have Mr. Leslie, of course."
"Rose Saxon and Graham Marr," said Sibyl.
"Now, Sibyl, how can you?" said Hugh. "Graham is not a congenial
spirit."
"He is congenial to me," replied Sibyl calmly.
"Of course we will have the Marrs," said Aunt Faith; "and Gideon Fish
also."
"Oh, Aunt Faith! Not Gideon?" said Bessie.
"Poor Gid! If he could hear you say so," said Hugh, laughing.
"I wish he could," answered Bessie hotly; "he does not understand a
hint."
"How should he, doubly enrolled as he is in his own self-importance?"
said Hugh.
"I am inclined to think there are good points in Gideon Fish," said
gentle Aunt Faith.
"Have you ever seen him eat?" asked Bessie with marked emphasis.
"No, my dear; but we all eat, do we not?" said Aunt Faith, smiling.
"Not like Gideon Fish, I hope, auntie. He never has enough; he is
always eyeing the baskets at picnics, and the supper-table at parties.
And then he never openly takes what he wants,--as Hugh does for
instance,--but he always pretends he does not care for anything, that
he is too much absorbed in intellectual conversation to attend to
anything so sublunary as eating, while all the time he is gloating
over the nice things, and sure to outstay everybody at the table. The
very way he gets a piece of cake is a study. He never takes it boldly,
like any one else, but eyes it awhile; then he turns the plate to the
right or the left, edging it a little nearer; then he looks furtively
at the slices, and gradually he gets hold of a piece, his little
finger carefully extended all the time, and his face wearing an
expression of pure self-sacrifice to an arduous duty."
Everybody laughed at this description, but Aunt Faith said, "Gently,
Bessie, gently. If that is all you have against Gideon, he has fewer
faults than most young persons of his age."
Somewhat conscience-stricken, Bessie did not reply, and the discussion
went on until the list was fully made out, and Hugh departed to
deliver the invitations and explain the conditions connected with the
editor's sanctum. He returned in an hour with acceptances from most of
the invited guests, and then silence reigned in the old stone house
for the remainder of the day, while all the contributors wooed the
Muses, ransacked their brains, or paced their floors in desperation,
according to their various temperaments. Aunt Faith having been
exempted from duty, moved about the house, arranging flowers and
decorating the pretty supper-table which stood in the sitting-room.
Gem had nothing to do but copy her composition, and yet she consumed
the whole day in a battle with the ink, and came out with a blotted
page at the last. Tom had disappeared; no one knew where he was. Sibyl
came down to dinner in her usual unruffled state, but Bessie's curly
hair stood on end, and there was a deep wrinkle between her eyes.
"Well, Sibyl, have you made a commencement?" she asked, as her cousin
took her seat at the dinner-table.
"I have finished my contribution entirely," said Sibyl.
"Did it take you all the morning? I have not heard a sound from your
room."
"Oh no! I finished it some time ago, and since then I have been making
a new underskirt for my Swiss muslin; the old one was not quite
fresh."
"There it is," said Bessie, half laughing, half vexed; "you are always
ahead of me, Sibyl. Your contribution will be perfect, and your dress
will be perfect,--and I am always just--"
"Bessie Darrell!" interrupted Hugh; "and I would not have you
different if I could."
"Thank you, Hugh; but the rest of the world may not agree with you."
"If you mean Gideon Fish," began Hugh, merrily, but something in his
cousin's face stopped him. It was seldom that the keenest observer
could detect anything like wounded feelings in Bessie Darrell's bright
eyes, but when it did come, they were like the eyes of a wounded fawn.
"How has your contribution advanced, Hugh?" asked Aunt Faith.
"Done! madam, at your service," said Hugh with a low bow. "The muses
visited me in a body, and I had hard work to choose between the
numerous gifts they offered."
"Very well," said Bessie, "I see I am entirely behind you all. I shall
shut myself into the studio this afternoon, and my ghost will come out
at tea-time, deliver a manuscript written in blood, and vanish into
thin air. Farewell, my friends, farewell!"
Evening came, and found Sibyl seated on the piazza looking like a lily
in her white draperies. Tom and Gem were in the parlor, in their best
attire, trying to look grown-up and dignified; Tom's collar was
especially imposing. The guests assembled slowly; Hugh received their
folded papers as they entered, and placed them in a covered basket.
Nine o'clock struck, and the merry party seated themselves in the
parlor, Sibyl by the side of Graham Marr, and Rose Saxon on the
opposite side of the room with Mr. Leslie. When they were all in
place, the door opened and Hugh appeared, carrying the basket. His
entrance was greeted with applause; an arm-chair by the table, and a
shaded light were ready, and, with much solemnity, the reader took his
seat. Placing the basket on the floor before him, he coughed, unfolded
a pocket-handkerchief, and laid it on the table at his elbow, brought
out a box of troches and placed them in position by the handkerchief,
gravely asked for a glass of water, which was also ranged in order,
and then, putting on a pair of green spectacles, bowed to the company
and began his preliminary speech:--
"Ladies and gentlemen; the humble individual who now addresses you
asks in advance for your kind sympathy for his present embarrassing
position. Of a gentle nature, timid as the wild rabbit, blushing as
the rosy dawn, he yet finds himself called upon to address the
public,--and such a public! (applause ). Ladies and gentlemen,--his
feelings are too much for him, and, withdrawing to the basket, he
hides his own personality in the following no doubt brilliant
effusions taken at random from this intellectual vortex. Ladies and
gentlemen,--I beg your attention to the story of:--
'THE UNSEEN VISITOR
"'While I was still a school-girl, I paid a visit to a young lady
friend in the pleasant city of C------. We occupied a room together in
the second story, and were the only persons on that floor, as the
other members of the family slept down-stairs, the house being large,
with irregular one-story wings on each side in the old-fashioned
style. C------ is a city of a hundred-thousand inhabitants, the
streets closely built up, lighted, paved, and guarded by a
well-regulated police force. It is a new town also, with no old
associations, old legends, or old people to cast a veil of mystery
over its new houses and young history; thus, it, would seem to be the
last place for anything mysterious, and yet it was there that a
singular incident occurred which I have never been able to explain.
One night I had been asleep perhaps two hours, when suddenly I
awoke,--it was about half-past ten when Kate and I went to our
room,--and soon after I awoke, I heard the clock strike one. The
street lamps were not lighted, in accordance with the almanac which
predicted a fine moon without any regard for the possibility, now a
certainty, of heavy clouds; not a gleam, therefore, came in through
the blinds to lighten the dark, still house. Our room was large,
opening into the hall which was long and broad, extending from one end
of the house to the other; the stairs from below came up into this
hall, and there was no way of getting to the back part of the house,
where the servants slept, without going entirely through it to the
west end.
"'Waking suddenly in the night always gives me a strange sensation. I
feel as though some one must have called me, and, involuntarily, I
listen for a second summons. This night I listened as usual, and
distinctly heard a step in the hall. Our door stood partly open, but
the darkness was intense. At first I thought it might be a member of
the family in search of something in the upper story, for there were
several unoccupied rooms and a medicine-closet opening into the hall;
but, after a moment, I noticed that the step did not pause or enter
these chambers, but seemed to keep in the hall, going back and forth,
from one end to the other, with perfect regularity and steadiness.
Much perplexed, I gently awakened Kate, and, placing my hand over her
lips, I whispered in her ear, 'listen!' She obeyed, and, with beating
hearts, we heard the footstep pacing back and forth before our door,
now at the west end, now at the east, in a measured gait to which we
could almost beat time, so regularly came the sound. The hall was
carpeted, and the footfalls soft, yet not as though the unseen visitor
was trying to deaden the sound. It was a natural step. From the light
tread we might have supposed it to be a woman's foot, but from the
stride it was more like a man. I do not know how long we lay there
motionless. I felt myself growing more and more nervous, and Kate's
hand, as it pressed mine, was cold and trembling. I think we would
have been relieved if the step had paused, or even entered our room;
that, at least, would have been like an ordinary burglar. But this
steady march, to and fro, seemed so unaccountable. If the steps, too,
had been soft and muffled, if we could have supposed the person was
creeping about after booty of some kind, we should have been
frightened, no doubt, but not so appalled as we were now at this
singular, easy, and apparently aimless promenade. We did not speak,
but lay trembling, and scarcely daring to breathe. Our room was long,
and the distance to the open door so great that we could not hope to
reach it unnoticed in the darkness, before the step would be upon us
again. Besides, the lock was out of order, so that even if we could
have summoned courage to shut it, it could not be fastened. The
stairway, too, was at such a distance beyond our door, that we did not
dare to try that way of escape, bringing us, as it would, face to face
with our unseen visitor. There was nothing left but silent endurance,
and thus we lay counting the footsteps through the long hours. We
could not hope, either, that the other members of the family would be
aroused, as their sleeping-rooms were not directly below us, but
beyond, in the wings. The clock struck two, and half-past, and
steadily the step kept on its regular sound, passing and repassing our
door. It grew insupportable. It seemed as though I should not be able
to keep from shrieking aloud each time it drew near. If we could have
spoken to each other we might have regained some courage, but we were
paralyzed with nervous fear; our throats were parched, and our muscles
rigid with long continued tension, for we dared not move. It was like
a spell, and the fact that we did not know what it was we feared, made
the fear all the more intense. At length, after what seemed a century
of suffering, the strange footsteps paused. Our hearts gave a leap.
Was it coming in? Who was it? Would it come and stand by the bedside,
and look at us in the darkness? No! Slowly--and steadily it went down
the stairs. We counted every step to the bottom. Then a pause. Would
it go towards the dining-room, where the silver was, or towards the
sleeping-rooms? We almost hoped it would, for that would prove a
desire for plunder. Still silence! We dared not move for fear it might
have crept softly up the stairs; it might even now be crawling towards
us in the darkness. We shuddered; the silence seemed worse than the
regular footfalls. Suddenly we heard a distinct snap in the hall
below. We instantly recognized the bolt of the front door, and
simultaneously we sprang from the bed. _It_--whatever _It_ was,--was
going. We ran across the room, hearing, as we went, the sound of the
footfalls on the stone walk outside, which led from the door to the
street. We rushed down-stairs and alarmed the house. The front-door
was found open, but no trace of our unseen visitor remained, although
the neighborhood was carefully searched. Investigation showed that
entrance had been effected through a dining-room window. But the
silver was untouched; nothing had been disturbed, although the house
contained many valuables, and it was evident that none of the
sleeping-rooms had been visited. It, whatever it was, had entered,
passed up the stairs, spent the night pacing to and fro in the upper
hall, and then, just before dawn, had departed as strangely as it
came.
"'Who or what it was, we never knew. The only possible solution was,
that it might have been some somnambulist; and, in that case, it must
have been some acquaintance who bad been in the house in his waking
moments. But even this solution seemed unsatisfactory, and finally
Kate and I gave up trying to solve the enigma, content to let it rest
as the mystery of our Unseen Visitor.
SIBYL WARRINGTON.'"
"Oh, Sibyl! you never told us anything about it before!" exclaimed
Gem, who had listened with breathless interest. "Is it all really
true?"
"Entirely true," replied Sibyl; "it is an exact description of what
happened during my visit to C------ last summer."
After a little general conversation upon somnambulism, and the stories
connected with it, Hugh took up another paper.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the next manuscript, which I have
taken at random from the basket, seems to be poetical. It is prefaced
by the following note:--
"'To the Editor,--Sir: I am a Boston man; I do not deny it, but glory
in the title! Some winters ago I was tempted to go west on business,
and found myself snowed up in that great Metropolis of the Lakes,--the
Pride of the West,--the Garden City,--in a word, Chicago! It was
before the great fire; the hotels were crowded; I was in the fifth
story, and, need I say it, I was miserable! In addition to my bodily
sufferings, my ear was tortured by the various pronunciations given to
the city's name. No sooner had I mastered one than I heard another! At
last, driven to desperation, I tried to while away the time in
composing the following 'Ode,' in which my feelings, and the three
different pronunciations are expressed:--
'ODE TO CHICAGO.
The wind is loud, and on the road
The snow lays an embargo,
While, in his room, a Boston man
Sits snow-bound in Chi-CAR-go.
A monkey when he is so sick
That he can't make his paw go,
Feels better than a Boston man
When storm-bound in Chi-CAW-go.
A spinster, when she cannot make
Her thin and grayish hair grow,
Feels happier than a Boston man
When storm-bound in Chi-CARE-go.
A Boston man would sooner lose
His credit, cash, and cargo,
He'd sooner be a beggar than
A dweller in Chi-CAR-go.
A Boston man would sooner far
To wigwam with a squaw go,
Than to enjoy domestic bliss
In the best house in Chi-CAW-go.
All the extreme and dreadful lengths
A Boston man would dare go,
Could ne'er include the direful thought
Of DWELLING in Chi-CARE-go.
ELIJAH GAY.'"
There was a general laugh over this effusion of the Boston bachelor.
Mr. Gay was a genial, pleasant man, and although approaching his
three-score years and ten, he enjoyed the companionship of young
people, and, what is more unusual, the young people sought his
company; he entered into their feelings and interests, and was not so
devoted to memories of the past but that; he could see the advantages
and improvements of the present.
"The next article to which I shall call your attention," said Hugh,
taking another paper from the basket, "is a grave and scholarly essay
upon that momentous subject, ambition. After the story and the poem,
no doubt our minds will receive much enjoyment from the contemplation
of this instructive theme:--
'AMBITION
Ambition is the curse of nations.
If it was not for ambition, America would be a better country.
Ambition is wrong.
Americans are very ambitious.
It is always better to be content with what we have got.
Especially when we have got so much.
It is not right to be too ambitious.
It is said we are going to have Cuba, Mexico and Canada.
Of course we can have them if we want to.
Or anything else.
But we must always remember that ambition is wrong.
THOMAS MORRIS.'"
"Very good, my boy," said Mr. Gay to Tom, whose scarlet face had
betrayed the authorship of this profound essay long before his name
was read; "adhere to that moral, and, mark my words, you will--never
be President of the United States."
Tom's embarrassment checked the smiles of the audience, and Hugh took
up another paper. "Ah!" he said with enthusiasm, "this seems to be a
poem in earnest, breathing the real afflatus, written with the pen of
Melpomene! With your permission, ladies and gentlemen, I will refresh
myself with a glass of water before I begin:--
'A JUNE LYRIC.
After all, not to labor only,--
But to breathe in the essence of vivified sheen,
The fragrance of rarefied thoughts as they surge to and
fro,
Heaving the unknown depths up to mountains of night.
Crystalline, luminous, rare, opalescently rare,--
This,--this is June!
GRAHAM MARR'"
"Ah, blank verse," said Sibyl to her companion, with admiring
interest. He bowed and stroked his moustache with a dreamy air.
"_Very_ blank, I should say," murmured Bessie to Mr. Gay.
"It seems to me as though I had heard the beginning of it before,
somewhere," answered the Boston bachelor in the same tone.
"The next contribution consists of a series of illustrations," said
Hugh, unfastening some loose sheets of drawing paper; "the following
introduction is appended:--
'The hand is not only an index of character, but it has a character of
its own. We may disguise or droll our features, cultivate our voices
and expression, but our hands betray us; I propose to illustrate this
principle by a series of sketches. To begin: when you see an irregular
hand with large, broad palm, strong wrist, but shapely, tapering
fingers, you may know that hand betokens a duplex temperament, where
opposite characteristics are constantly struggling for the mastery.
The palm may denote strength and industry, but the fingers may
overbalance these qualities by their love of ease or generous
prodigality. For instance, when you see a hand of this nature, you may
know that its owner might give you half his fortune, might even give
you his life, and yet would be very likely to keep the household in
discomfort for months, for want of one new shingle on the roof. In
short, my friends, you might know it was--'"
Here the reader paused, and held up a large drawing of two hands, so
lifelike and alive with character that the whole company cried out
with one voice, "Hugh!"
"Rather embarrassing for the editor," said Hugh, hastening on with his
task as the laughter subsided. "Here, my friends is another design.
When you see a hand proportioned in careful outlines, beautiful, but
also firm; white, but also strong to the playing of a sonata, you may
know the owner will be prompt, even-tempered and calm; you may know
the owner will be such a one as--" here Hugh held up another design;
"Sibyl!" said the audience, as the two hands appeared.
Mr. Leslie rose, and crossed the room to examine the drawing; he did
not lay it aside, but carried it back to his seat, as though it was
the most natural thing in the world. Sibyl's color rose, but she
turned with marked interest towards Graham Marr, and listened to his
remarks with a bright smile.
"The next design," Hugh read, "requires no explanation. It is the
strong, broad, long palm, and strong, long, shapely fingers of the
well-balanced, resolute man, who will fight the battle of life with
all his strength, and never give up until it is won. In short, it
is--"
"Mr. Leslie!" said the audience, as the illustration was held up for
inspection. Sibyl's eyes brightened as she saw the life-like picture,
but she sat silent as the others poured forth criticisms and comments.
"Go on, Hugh!" said Mr. Leslie laughing; "this is quite an ordeal, I
find."
"The next design," read Hugh, "shows all the faults of nature's worst
handiwork. (No pun intended.) A scraggy little paw, brown, knotted and
shapeless; of course every one will know that it is--"
"Bessie!" cried the laughing audience, as two ridiculous caricatures
of Bessie's little brown hands came into view.
"Last of all, I present the fat-simile of a perfect hand. Our other
designs have been youthful, but this one has borne the burden and heat
of the day. Originally beautiful and shapely, it is now worn with
labor for others; it has given to the poor, it has tended the sick, it
has guarded the young, and soothed the afflicted. It is,--I am sure
you will recognize it,--"
"Aunt Faith!"--"Mrs. Sheldon!" cried the company, as the last drawing
was displayed.
"Bravo, Bessie!" said Tom; "your contribution is the best so far."
When the buzz of conversation had subsided, Hugh took another paper
from the basket.
"The next contribution is poetical," he said; "it is entitled:--
'A JUNE RHAPSODY.
The lovely month of June has come,
The sweetest of the year,--
(I've heard this somewhere;--never mind;)
The meadows green and sear;--
Sear's not the word; there's something wrong,--
I fear my muse will drop
The fire of genius' flowing song,
And so I'd better stop!
ROSE SAXON.'"
A general laugh followed this effusion, and no one joined in it more
heartily than the authoress, a bright little brunette with sparkling
eyes, in whose expression merriment predominated.
"Our next manuscript seems to be of a serious nature," said Hugh; "it
treats of a solemn subject, and I beg you to give it your attentive
consideration:--
'BOYS.
Boys are funny sometimes, but girls are more dignified for their age.
Boys are rude, but girls are polite and lady-like. It is a pity boys
are not lady-like too. Once I knew a boy, a very little boy, and he
had a pair of boots. Real boots,--the first he ever had. One night
when his father came home, he found Jimmy sitting on the stairs in the
hall. The boots were outside the parlor door,--against the wall. "What
are you doing here, Giant Grimm?" said his father. (His father called
him "Giant Grimm," sometimes; for fun, I suppose.) "I'm seein' how my
boots 'ud look if they was stood outside the door at a hotel to be
cleaned," said Jimmy. He could not speak very plain, so I have not
written it plain.
GRACE EVANS MORRIS.'"
"Very good, little girl," said Aunt Faith, drawing her youngest child
to her side, and signing to Hugh to go on in order to divert attention
from her; "I didn't know you could write so well."
"THE OHIO CAPTAIN,"
read Hugh.
"When the war for the Union broke out, I had just completed my studies
and entered the ministry. My intention had been to enter upon my new
duties in a little village not far from my home, but as the excitement
spread through the country, and the young men left their fields, their
workshops, and their homes, to join the army, I could not overcome my
desire to go with them. I could not sleep, through many exciting
weeks; in imagination I saw this one, and that one, friends that I
knew, cold in death, or lying wounded alone in the night. I seemed to
walk through crowded hospitals and to hear the 'ping' of the balls; I
felt that if ever there was a place where the gospel words were
needed, it was after the battle, when men were left with the awful
shadow of death hanging over them. My youth and inexperience would be
obstacles in the well-regulated quiet village, but in the army might
they not be overlooked, if accompanied by willing hands and heart? In
the great haste, in the great excitement, in the great agony, might
not the great tidings be delivered acceptably even by an inexperienced
messenger? Thus I thought, and soon after the battle of Bull Run, I
obtained an appointment as chaplain, joined the army, and remained
with it until the close of the war.
"Part of this time I was with an Ohio volunteer regiment; the colonel
belonged to the regular army, but all the other officers were
volunteers. I grew to know them all, and among them I found many noble
hearts, and, had I the time, I could relate many incidents of
generosity and true courage, part of that unwritten history of the war
which will never come into print. Among these officers there was one
young captain whom I especially liked. He was quiet and reserved, and
although he never talked with me as his companions sometimes did,
although he told me nothing of his life and history, I still felt
that, he was a Christian at heart, probably one of those who have
never been drawn out of themselves, or taught the pleasure of
sympathetic fellowship. Captain Worthington often came to the Sunday
service, when I was able to hold one, and his voice joined in the
hymns, which gave the greatest charm to those military prayer-meetings;
but beyond this I could not pass. He was reserved and silent; I could
not force myself upon him. Sensitive natures abhor an intruder.
"One evening in September, while passing through the camp, I met
Captain Worthington walking up and down under the trees; he spoke to
me with unusual cordiality, and we continued the walk together,
strolling through the forest at, random, and talking upon any subject
which happened to suggest itself. The week had been hard and annoying.
The brigade had been marching and counter-marching in an apparently
purposeless way, although, no doubt, there was a concealed motive in
every movement; the ground was stony, and broken by deep ravines, the
forage wretched, and rain had been falling almost continuously, so
that deep mud alternated with sharp stones, making every mile seem
two. There had, also, been no enemy in sight to keep up the ardor of
the soldiers, and make them forget their discomfort; it had been, as
I said before, a wretched week, and Allan Worthington, always grave,
seemed this evening almost sad. We sat down upon a fallen tree, and in
the still gloom of that night he first spoke of his home.
"'I have been thinking about my mother,' he said; 'I cannot explain
it, but home seems very near to me to-night. I can see the house as
plainly as though it stood here before me, and I see mother sitting in
her arm-chair by the table, knitting. Poor mother! how lonely she
looks.'
"'Has she no other children?' I asked.
"'No; I am her only child. She let me go because I would not stay; I
sometimes think perhaps I was wrong to leave her. We lived alone on
the hill, and when I rode into the country town and heard the latest
news, I seemed to be all on fire; I would ride back over the quiet
road, my blood fairly tingling with excitement. At last, as the story
of the battles began to come, I could stand it no longer, and I told
mother I must go. The regiments from my part of the country were all
full, but I got a lieutenant's place in another county, and marched
away. That was more than two years ago, and I have never felt homesick
until this evening. I don't know what has come over me.'
"'In what part of Ohio does your mother live, captain?' I asked.
"'At Benton Fails, South county. I hope to get a furlough before long.
I want to go home, if only for a few days; there is one there besides
mother whom I want to see; I never knew how much until now.'
"These last words were spoken in a low tone, almost as if the young
soldier had forgotten my presence and was talking to himself. He was
sitting on the log, with his back against a large oak-tree, resting as
though he was in an arm-chair. He said no more, and I strolled away
for a moment, thinking that if he resumed the subject when I returned,
I would gladly pursue it, but unwilling to take advantage of what
might have been an inadvertent utterance. I was absent several
minutes, climbing down the bank to the spring to get a drink of water;
then I returned and took my place upon the log again.
"'I suppose you often hear from your mother, captain?' I said.
"He did not answer. I repeated the question; no reply. I was
perplexed. Could he have fallen into a brown study? His eyes were
open, and he appeared to be looking off through the forest. At length
I touched his shoulder, but he did not move. I took his hand; he was
dead! Shot through the heart. The roaring of the brook, and the steep
bank, had prevented my hearing the report; but, as I sat there holding
the dead hand, suddenly the woods seemed to grow alive with noise and
light. Our camp had evidently been surprised by the enemy, and a sharp
conflict began. I took poor Allan's note-book and watch, and,
remembering his mother, I managed to cut off a lock of his curly hair;
but, before I had gone far, I myself was struck by a stray shot, and
knew nothing more until I awoke in a border hospital two months
afterwards, pale and weak, the very shadow of my former self. As
memory came back, I thought of the captain. The relics had been
preserved, and, as soon as I was able, I sent them to the poor mother,
with a letter describing my last conversation with her boy,--his last
words on earth. I supposed, of course, that she knew from other
sources all the details of the attack, but I felt that I must also
tell her what _I_ knew; possibly it would be some comfort to her. In
about a week I received a letter written in a careful, old-fashioned
handwriting. The poor mother had known nothing all that long time save
this: 'Captain A. Worthington reported missing.' Our regiment had
suffered severely. The camp had been abandoned, and the dead left on
the field. The suspense had been dreadful, and she had prayed for
relief. It had come in the inward conviction that her boy was dead;
that he was not in the southern prisons or languishing in a hospital,
but gone from earth forever. My letter brought her the first definite
tidings, and my description of that last conversation, the first
comfort. 'I shall go to him though he shall not return to me,' wrote
the afflicted mother; and she gave me her blessing in such solemn,
tender words, that I can never forget them. In the letter she enclosed
a picture of Allan, sent home to her during the previous year; and
with it another, a picture of the one of whom Allan said, 'I want to
see her; I never knew how much until now.'"
As Hugh finished reading, he took the photographs from an envelope,
and handed them to Aunt Faith. They were passed from hand to hand,
with gentle comments, and some tear-dimmed eyes gazed on the pictured
faces,--a resolute, grave young soldier, with earnest eyes, and a
little, delicate, wistful maiden, as fair and simple as a wild-flower.
"The war made many partings," said Aunt Faith, as she replaced the
pictures in their envelope, and returned them to Mr. Leslie; "but the
lost ones are only gone before. There are no partings there."
The gayety had subsided into a quiet thoughtfulness, by common consent
the reading was abandoned, and, as it was growing late, Aunt Faith led
the way into the sitting-room, where the pretty supper-table soon
aroused the vivacity of the young people. Youth is buoyant, and, as
for Aunt Faith, she was never saddened by the thought of death. She
had lost so many loved ones, that her home seemed more there than
here. In a few moments all the company were talking and laughing as
merrily as ever, and in the crowd around the table no one noticed that
Rose Saxon had slipped away. If they noticed anything beside
themselves, it was the amount of chocolate-ice which Gideon Fish
consumed!
Rose was in the parlor. The basket was still in its place, and she was
looking over the remaining manuscripts. "'Gideon Fish,'" she
murmured, "no one wants to hear that; 'Lida Powers,' 'William Mount,'
'Edith Chase,'--oh, here is something! I know the handwriting,
although there is no name. Let me see,--yes; this is Hugh's. It is
sure to be good, and I mean to have it read." So, just before the
company broke up, Rose rapped on the table with her plump little fist.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, in her merry voice, "I presume you
all know Mr. Pete Trone, the distinguished terrier, whose
accomplishments and sagacity are in every mouth."
"Oh, we know him!" answered the company; "we know him well." "He is
the celebrated dog of republican principles,"--"who climbs trees;"--"and
walks the tight-rope;"--"and dances the hornpipe!"
"I perceive that you know him," said Rose, "and therefore you will be
pleased to hear an epic poem in his honor. Indeed, it is supposed that
he wrote it himself. He speaks with modesty of his achievements,
alludes with feeling to his fancy for digging in the garden, and begs
for sympathy. With your permission, I will read the:--
'COMPLAINT OF PETE TRONE, ESQ.
I'm only a poor little terrier,
Very small, black-and-tan,
But a dog who is brighter or merrier
Never breathed, never ran.
I'm death on piratical cats,
And, mangled and gory,
The bodies of hundreds of rats
Testify to my glory.
My duty I try to fulfil
Whenever I know it;
If I do not accomplish your will
You've only to show it;
Yet, though I'm thus honest and square
In all my dealings,
It is plain that you are not aware
A dog has his feelings.
If master is kept in at school
Why must I feel the stick?
If sweetheart is distant and cool,
Why should I get a kick?
If Turk steals the mutton for dinner,
And goes off to gulp it,
Why screen HIM, the solemn old sinner,
And call ME the culprit?
And if I am fond of the sand-banks,
And fresh garden-soil,
Why should you molest with your brickbats
My hard, honest toil?
And why should you call it a 'dusty muss,'
And make me abandon
My labor? Remember, 'DE GUSTIBUS
NON EST DISPUTANDUM!'
The world should remember a canine
Has a heart in his breast;
If you knew all you never could say mine
Was worse than the rest.
Then help me to gain the position
To which I aspire,
And grant this poor dog-gerel petition
Of Pete Trone, Esquire!'"
"Excellent! excellent!" cried the audience, as Rose finished reading
the verses.
"I propose we have the hero in person," said Mr. Gay.
So Tom went out, and after some delay returned with Mr. P. Trone, who
had been hastily attired in his red suit for the occasion, four red
pantaloons, a red coat, and little cap with a red feather. He was
received with applause, and, after being regaled with macaroons, went
through all his tricks, concluding with a slow horn pipe to the tune
of "Lochinvar."
About midnight the guests took their departure, and the cousins
assembled in the parlor for a few moments before going to bed.
"I think the sanctum was real fun," said Gem; "but you did not read
all the papers, Hugh?"
"No; it would have taken too much time," answered Hugh; "what a good
thing you made of those hands, Bessie. We must keep the drawings.
Why!--where is Sibyl's?"
"Mr. Leslie took it away;--he laid a paper over it and put it in his
pocket, just as though it belonged to him," said Tom; "but of all the
contributions, _I_ liked Mr. Gay's 'Chicago' the best."
"And I liked Mr. Leslie's story," said Aunt Faith; "it is singular he
never before mentioned his army life."
"Oh! he isn't one of the talking kind like Gideon Fish," said Hugh.
"Gid is always telling everybody about his 'emotional nature,' and his
inner 'consciousness.' He seems to think his mental condition, a
subject of public interest, and constantly sends out bulletins for the
benefit of anxious friends. His manuscript was poetical, but I took
good care to hide it in the bottom of the basket. By the way, Sibyl,
how did you like Graham Marr's Lyric? Pretty deep, wasn't it?"
Sibyl was arranging the books and music in their proper places. "You
know I am not myself poetical," she answered calmly; "but I like Mr.
Marr, and therefore I like his verses, Hugh."
"Oh, Sibyl! surely not so well as Mr. Leslie's story?" said Bessie
earnestly.
"Poetry and prose cannot be compared, neither can Mr. Marr and Mr.
Leslie be compared," said Sibyl; "they are very different."
"I should think they were!" said Hugh.
"And tastes are different also," added Sibyl, as she finished her
task. "Good-night all."
The cousins dispersed, while Aunt Faith turned out the lights. "I
almost think she likes that Marr, after all," whispered Hugh to Bessie
as they went up the stairs; "she was with him all the evening."
"Let me tell you, Hugh Warrington, that if Sibyl likes anybody, it is
Mr. Leslie," returned Bessie emphatically.
"When did you discover that, Brownie?"
"I have always suspected it, but to-night I saw it plainly," replied
Bessie.
"To-night! Why, she was with Marr all the time!"
"Men are as blind as bats," said Bessie scornfully; "good-night."