THE SEA-ROAD TO CATHAY
It is not always the end of a tale when the two most familiar figures in
it come to their wedding day; the business of living happily ever after
is a more complicated matter than that. The work that those two are to
do together must be safely launched before we can turn aside from them,
knowing, more or less, how the rest of their story is to be told.
Clotilde and Gerald Radpath had chosen to go their way together, but,
even for some time after they were married, they stood hesitating a
little, not quite sure as to which way the appointed road was to lead.
As many people said at first, it was a pleasant thing that the name of
Radpath had come back to the great house on the hill. It was like to
stay there also, through another generation at least, they would add,
since, a year and a half later, there was a new member of the household,
a sunny-hearted, sturdy young gentleman who romped and rolled upon the
grass in the garden. It was a delight, besides, to see the big house
finished at last, to see smooth panelling replace the rough boards, and
plaster walls stand where bare timbers had been left. For the proper
completing of Stephen Sheffield’s house, Gerald had used a large part of
the little fortune he had brought with him from England, realised from
the sale of his small estate. There were also outlying lands to be
looked to, where the fields must be turned once more into their old
round of cultivation. Stephen Sheffield’s fortune, much confused and
diminished on account of the war and of his great generosity, must be
finally set in order, a task that was no small or easy one. In such
occupations two years had passed away and still the great question as to
just which highroad of life they were to take had not yet been settled.
They were walking in the garden one warm bright afternoon, Gerald
carrying his little son, whose name as any one might guess, was Stephen.
Clotilde, with her basket and garden shears, was gathering the last of
the October-blooming flowers. Their talk had been of many and quite
unimportant things, but for a little while they had been silent as they
went, all three together, down the grassy path.
“Gerald,” said Clotilde at last, “there has been for days something
hanging heavy on your mind. Are you not nearly ready to tell me of it?”
Smiling at the ease with which she read his thoughts, Gerald answered:
“I am ready to speak of it now and was that moment searching for the
words with which to begin. It is not an easy thing to say.”
They sat down together on the bench and Gerald set young Stephen on the
grass where he could roll and tumble to his heart’s content.
“If you know my thoughts so well, Clotilde,” he said, “you must have
long seen that there is something wrong with my position here in
Hopewell.”
“I have known that something troubled you,” she replied, “but I had not
realised that there was aught amiss in regard to our neighbours.”
Yet, even as she spoke, she remembered with dismay the odd, aloof
manners of many of the townspeople toward Gerald. She recollected the
distant courtesy toward both of them, of good souls who had always
before received her with such simple friendliness. The people of
Hopewell were old-fashioned in their ways, they clung to many a
forgotten custom and form of speech unused by the rest of the world, and
with this had kept the open-hearted frankness of an earlier and simpler
life. Try as they might, thoughts could not be hidden and feelings
concealed. And, as she thought the matter over, it seemed plainer and
plainer to Clotilde as it had long been clear to Gerald, that their
neighbours looked at him askance and did not seem to trust him.
“It is this,” Gerald went on to explain, “a thing that at first I did
not see myself. The people of this town like me not and wish that I were
away. When we meet their eyes seem to say to me, ‘Gerald Radpath, you
bear Master Simon’s name but are you of his kind? You, who fought
against us in the war and have come back now that all the struggle is
over, is your purpose good or bad?’”
“Yes,” assented Clotilde, with no attempt at argument. “Yes, I have seen
that too. But I had thought that time would sweep it all away when they
have learned to know you better.”
“The feelings of your hard-headed Puritan folk alter not so easily with
time,” he returned. “No, I must show them that I care for the welfare of
this country as much as they, and I have thought of a possible way. You
know that Roger Bardwell said that the wealth of New England was to come
from her traffic with the world rather than from her farms, you know
that he proved his words and established a prosperous trade with
England, France and Spain. Now all of that has been swept away by these
years of war and it will take long labour to build it up again. But in
that upbuilding I mean to have a share.”
Clotilde did not speak quite yet; she knew that there was more to come.
“I can buy and refit one of the privateer vessels that have survived the
war,” he went on. “The Mistress Margeret is lying in the harbour now and
can easily be made ready for a journey overseas with what money I have
left to spend on ship and cargo. And in her I will make the first long
voyage myself. My father was a ship’s captain, I sailed with him when I
was a lad and he taught me much, so that I might command a ship of my
own some day.”
He did not say what pain it would be to leave her for so long, she did
not whisper of how her heart stood still at the thought of his going.
Each one realised what the other felt, yet each knew that this was the
only way and that here was Gerald’s task in life.
“Where will you go?” she asked at last, and waited breathless for the
reply that did not come at once.
“The sailors,” he said, “have a name for the path that they steer,
marked out by the sun and stars across the trackless sea. They call it
the sea road and to them, in time, it becomes as familiar as the
housewife’s way to market. And I am of a mind, Clotilde, to break out a
new sea road, and a far one, a way that our sailors have never gone
before.”
“To Italy?” she asked, her eyes wide with anxiety.
He shook his head.
“To Africa?” No again.
“To—to—”
“To China,” he said at last.
He sat with his hands clasped between his knees and his eyes fixed upon
the grass at his feet as though he could not bear to look at the terror
and distress in her face.
“Do you not see that I must go?” he pleaded. But still she did not
answer.
To China! To that vague unknown land that the old story books and maps
called Cathay. Had he said to the moon, it could not have seemed a more
dangerous and impossible journey. It was almost exactly two hundred
years since Gerald’s ancestor, Robin Radpath, had set sail with Queen
Elizabeth’s message to the Chinese Emperor and had never come back.
Since that time the land had grown to be only a little less strange; few
were the travellers whose tales of adventures there had ever reached
America. No ship from New England had gone so far; one or two, indeed,
had attempted the voyage and had never been heard of again.
Many were the kinds of goods, spices and ivory, coffee, tea and silk
that came from that inaccessible country and from the equally mysterious
East Indies, but they came by way of Constantinople, Venice or Portugal,
and were transferred to English or American vessels. But to go direct,
to have the little, newly-independent country of America hold out a hand
to grasp at the trade that had never been attempted save by lands whose
commerce was hundreds of years old! What a great idea it was, she
thought, and in spite of herself thrilled with pride. How would the
people of Hopewell regard Gerald then—after he had undertaken such a
venture and carried it to a successful end.
“Yes,” she said finally and with no remonstrance, “yes, I do see it. I
know that you must go.”
The Mistress Margeret was refitted from stem to stern that winter and
the cargo in bales and boxes laid away within her hold. When the early
Spring came, she lifted anchor, hoisted sail and swept out of Hopewell
harbour, her prow turned to the far horizon and the other side of the
world. She sailed short handed, for, bold as were the sailors of
Hopewell, many of them hung back from such a venture. There were vague
but terrible tales of what might happen to ships beyond the Cape of Good
Hope, tales of furious hurricanes, of reefs and shoals in vast uncharted
seas, and even of sea monsters.
“Let one ship go there and come back safe,” they said. “Let us hear that
only ordinary storms and ordinary dangers will assail us on such a
voyage and that by the Southern stars we can steer as straight a course
as by our good Dipper and North Star. Then we will set sail with a right
good will!”
So the voyage began with only a few bold-hearted seamen on board and
with Gerald Radpath standing at the ship’s stern, watching, as far as he
could see, the brave little figure on the hillside that waved good-bye
as long as loving eyes could span that ever widening distance.
“We will not make his going hard, Stephen, by showing him our tears,”
said Clotilde, at last, as she took up her boy in her arms and made her
way with slow, dragging steps back to the house.
Would she ever, she wondered, stand there to watch come in the ship that
now seemed sailing away for all time?
Almost from the moment that the Mistress Margeret sank below the
horizon, Clotilde could see that the feeling toward Gerald was beginning
to change.
“Your good husband, madam, Heaven send that he come back safe!” were
words that she used to hear often as she went about the town.
“My grandfather began his fortunes as cabin boy to good Master Roger
Bardwell,” said one of the housewives to her, “and I hope my son will
sail some day with Master Radpath.”
And one old sailor, who had begged hard to go with Gerald but had been
reluctantly left behind on account of his age and feebleness, said the
best thing of all.
“I told ’em, mistress, many a time, that the lad had Simon Radpath’s
blood in him and a good spirit of his own besides, and I said he would
show it yet. Now the blind ones are beginning to see.”
There was but a single person who did not seem to have a higher regard
for Gerald now that he was gone. This was Agnes Twitchell, whose
bridegroom husband had shipped as mate on the Mistress Margeret.
“We were but three months married,” she cried to Clotilde, who had come
to see her, but who was not allowed to enter her cottage door. “Your
husband took my man from me and they will never come back. You were a
wicked woman to let him do so; why did you not keep him safe at home?”
“Were you able to keep your husband when he thought that he must go?”
Clotilde asked, and Agnes shook her head. “Then why think you that I
could keep mine either, or that I was less unhappy than you at the
thought of his going? Try to have courage and think of the day when they
come back.”
“That will never be!” sobbed the other, and she ran inside, slamming the
door when her visitor would have followed to comfort her.
The days passed so slowly that it did, indeed, seem at times as though
the period of waiting would never have an end.
“Nine—ten—eleven months we may be gone,” Gerald had said, “and should
the time lengthen to a year you are not to be afraid.”
But the year passed, Spring came again and filled Master Simon’s garden
with flowers, yet its winds blew no great merchant ship into the
harbour. The roses bloomed and died, the midsummer crickets and katydids
sang in the long grass, the autumn flowers opened and the maples and
birches in the forest began to show their scarlet and yellow.
“He will come, he will come!” Clotilde would cry fiercely to herself
every day, but it had reached a point when she alone in all of Hopewell
believed it. A foreign sailor coming in on an English vessel brought a
tale of how, all the coast of Africa, a ship answering all descriptions
of the _Mistress Margeret_ had been seen, drifting idly with all sail
set and apparently no one on board.
“Just a moment we saw her in the fog,” he said, “for the mist lifted and
there she was like a picture, every sail hoisted and never a living soul
in sight upon her decks. I doubt not she has gone to the bottom long
before now.”
Yet still Clotilde went on hoping. Agnes Twitchell wore black and openly
mourned her husband as dead. She screamed after Clotilde upon the street
one day and, when people sought to hush her, only cried out the louder.
“Her husband murdered my good man,” she shrieked, frantic in her grief.
“Shall I not then cry out to reproach her?”
Probably the most cruel blow, however, was the one that Clotilde
received one summer evening as she was working among the flowers with
Stephen at her side. Two people, talking together, passed the gate.
“That is Master Simon’s garden,” said one to the other, who must have
been a stranger, and then the speaker added, not realising that Clotilde
was close enough to hear:
“It is there that the Widow Radpath dwells with her son.”
So that was what they called her now! Clotilde’s hand closed over the
branch of the rose vine that she was holding until the thorns tore her
fingers, but she never noticed.
“Mother, what is a widow?” asked Stephen, but he never learned, for she
snatched him up in her arms and burst into a passion of tears.
Every day, as the weather grew colder and autumn gales swept through the
dead garden, she and Stephen spent long hours at the little round window
of the stair-landing, looking and looking out to sea.
“Why are you not watching, Mother?” Stephen would exclaim at times.
“Your eyes are shut!”
[Illustration: “Why are you not watching, Mother?”]
“I was praying,” Clotilde would explain, “and that is better than
watching, little son.”
She had gone to sleep one windy night, listening to the heavy shutters
rattling and to the threshing of the branches in the great trees
outside, and had dreamed, as she always did in a storm, of high roaring
waves and a good ship pounding upon cruel rocks. She awoke suddenly with
the thunder of it still in her ears. But no, that noise was real, it was
some one beating upon the great front door, striking frantic blows on
the knocker in an effort to rouse the house.
Hastily slipping on some clothes and lighting a candle which guttered
and flickered as she passed down the stairs, she hurried to the door,
unbarred it, and flung it open. A gust of wind and rain rushed in,
extinguished the candle and fairly blew a wild dishevelled figure into
her arms. By the light from the dying coals that still glowed in the big
hall fireplace, Clotilde was able to recognise her visitor.
“Why, Agnes, Agnes Twitchell,” she cried, “what brings you here?”
Agnes Twitchell it was, clad only in her nightgown with a shawl wrapped
about her, with her hair flying and her teeth chattering.
“I—I came to tell you,” she began, and then broke all into wild and
joyful weeping. “God forgive me for all the wrong I have done you,
Mistress Radpath,” she cried, “there—there is a ship coming in!”
If she had more words to say, she could not speak them, for at that she
broke down utterly and clung to Clotilde, trembling and sobbing aloud.
Clotilde half carried her to the settle, blew up the fire and brought a
warm cloak to wrap about her. A startled servant came down the stairs
and was sent for hot water and restoratives. Whenever Clotilde even so
much as looked toward the door, Agnes screamed and wept afresh.
“Do not leave me,” she begged. “It might not be true! I might have
dreamed it.”
Clotilde felt that it would indeed be cruel to leave the girl in the
midst of such hysterical terror. Only once, when she ran upstairs for
more warm blankets, did she dare to stop for a moment at the small round
window and look out. There through the dark, she saw the ship speeding
up the harbour like a half-seen phantom, its close-reefed sails showing
like pale ghosts against the headland. It might indeed have been a
vision or a dream.
It seemed a long, long time before Agnes was quieted. At last, however,
her tense fingers relaxed, her tears ceased flowing and she leaned back
in the great chair.
“Yes,” she said, reading the longing in Clotilde’s eyes, “go you and see
if it is really so, Mistress Radpath. I could never bear to ask the
truth myself.”
Without waiting for further words, Clotilde snatched up a cloak and sped
out into the dark, windy garden. She stumbled and slipped many times on
the wet stones of the path, but at last reached the white gate and
leaned over it. Up the lane from the harbour was coming a crowd of
shouting people; they carried torches that tossed and flamed high in the
wind. The clamour and confusion were so great, the light was so
flickering and uncertain that it was not until they came near that she
could make out what it was that they bore in their midst. But at last
she saw; it was her husband lifted high among them, Gerald Radpath
carried in triumph on the shoulders of the shouting men of Hopewell. The
Mistress Margeret had safely sailed the long sea road to China and back
again.
They came close to where she stood and, still cheering, set their burden
down. When they saw Clotilde waiting, there fell a silence so complete
that the familiar creaking of the hinges could be heard as Gerald opened
the gate. The foremost of the crowd looked once at her white face and
spoke below his breath to his companions.
“Come away, lads,” he said. “We have no right within there now.”
Not that night nor the next day could Clotilde hear the tale of Gerald’s
adventures for oh, what need he had of resting and being tended, how
pale and utterly worn out he was! But at last he told the story, sitting
under the linden tree in the warm brightness of a perfect Indian summer
afternoon. He told how they had met storms, had been delayed by calms
and had narrowly escaped being wrecked a hundred times on account of
their ignorance of the proper course, but had at last come in safety to
the East India Islands and to the great sea-ports of China.
“I can spend all of my declining years in telling you of the wonders we
saw,” he said, “so I will not stop in my tale now or I would never come
to the end.”
He related further how, on their homeward voyage, they had put in for
shelter behind a little island and how two of the men, against his
orders had slipped ashore to trade with the natives. When they had set
forth again these two sickened with a tropical fever that spread, one by
one, to all on board. There were no men to tend the sails for all lay
ill, only one had strength to hold the tiller and keep the vessel from
destruction, and that one was himself.
“The wind held steady,” he said, “and when I could no longer stand, I
lay upon the deck, clinging still to the tiller and wondering whether we
should ever come to port. The sky seemed red-hot above us and the water
red-hot below, and at last I saw neither sea nor sail nor compass, nor
knew whither I was steering. I saw only a cool, green garden with a
linden tree and a sundial in its midst, I saw the white flowers nodding
in the wind and I vow that I could smell the verbena and mignonette and
hear the gurgle of the brook that runs beside the road. And I saw you
come down the path, it was straight to you that the Mistress Margeret
steered her course, for I had knowledge of nothing else.”
It was Joseph Twitchell, the first to recover from the fever, who
finally came to his aid and carried him down to his berth where he lay
delirious for days and talked of nothing but the bees among the apple
blossoms and the wind stirring the poplar trees. But finally, white,
thin and weak and needing the help of two companions, he had crawled up
on deck once more to enjoy the cool, fresh evening air. The hot tropical
wind had fallen, the Southern Cross that had shone so long in the sky
above them had dropped below the horizon and the friendly Northern stars
hung serene and clear in the heavens to show them the safe way home.
Gerald was still speaking when the white gate creaked as it opened to
admit a visitor. Many and many a person of high and low degree had come
and gone that way, but this man was, perhaps, the one whose coming meant
the most of all. Yet he was only a common sailor, dressed in rough
clothes, who shuffled his feet upon the path and fumbled with his
battered hat.
“Please, sir,” he said to Gerald, “I came to ask if, when you sail for
China again, you will take me with you.”
“But you did not wish to go before,” Gerald answered.
“Ay, that I know,” replied the sailor, “and I curse my folly now and
would give both my eyes to have been among your crew. For the news of
your safe return is running like wildfire through the country, it will
be all over New England in another day, while here in Hopewell there are
already a hundred seafaring men ready for a new voyage. And as for the
merchants, there is not one within fifty miles, which is as far as the
tale has gone as yet, but is looking through his stock and setting aside
the goods that he is going to venture in the new East India trade.”
“But there is only one ship that has gone and come back again,” said
Gerald. “Has that been sufficient to convince you all?”
“It is enough,” returned the man; “that has convinced us along with an
old saying that, they tell us, was first current in Master Simon’s time
and has now begun to go round again. It is that ‘Wherever a Radpath
goes, there it is no bad thing to follow!’”
CONCLUSION
It is many and many a long year now since Gerald and Clotilde walked
together down the high-hedged paths, but Master Simon’s garden still
blooms green and fair upon the hillside. Ships coming past the rocky
headlands of the harbour steer, by night, for the light streaming from
that little round window of the great brick mansion, for that is an
older landmark than the tall white lighthouse near the entrance of the
bay. They are not now the mighty East India merchantmen that luff and
tack in the narrow channel, for they, with their tall masts and towering
white sails have vanished from the seas forever. Along the shore,
nevertheless, you can still see the endless wharves and great, empty
warehouses clinging to their rotting piles and almost slipping into the
lazy, lapping tide. They manage, somehow, still to stand and tell all
people who go by how great was once the trade that brought prosperity
back to Hopewell. If you peep within you will see only bare, vacant
floors and a long dusty sunbeam or two, dropping from rifts in the
sagging roof, but you will sniff a vague scent of fruit and spices as a
reminder of the days of the clipper ships of Hopewell, laden with the
world’s goods and following Gerald Radpath’s long sea-road to China.
Although those wharves are idle and the warehouses empty, you need not
think, however, that the products of America stop at home. No, they are
carried by different ships, swift steel vessels that drop long trails of
smoke behind them as they speed upon their way, they go out through
different harbours, but, just the same, New England goods and New
England men find their way to the very ends of the world.
The hum of the spinning-wheel and the creak of the loom that once you
could hear in the warm noontide, through the open cottage doors, has
increased now a thousand-fold, for rows of great brick factories crown
the hill and, far out to sea, the fishermen can see, hanging over
Hopewell, the cloud of smoke from hundreds of spouting chimneys. The
tiny log but where Goody Parsons planted her rose, the cottage where
Samuel Skerry plied his trade, even the house with its white-painted
doorway where Miles Atherton used to live, have all vanished to make
room for newer, greater buildings. The little meeting house still
stands, but is overshadowed by a great stone church, where a huge organ
has taken the place of the droning psalm-singing, and where the pastor
has now neither time nor need for planting potato fields to eke out his
living. Yet amid all the stately buildings about it, schools, library,
church and Court House, the old grey log house is the most precious of
all, for it stands as a monument to the brave men who reared it and who
carried their love of freedom into a new world.
At the bend in the stream where the little Jesuit priest had built his
woodland chapel and decked his altar, there is now a busy humming
factory town, called by his name and driving its noisy spinning-wheels
by means of the river that once babbled past his door. Rows of toiling
men and women can look out through their tall windows down upon the
grave of Jeremiah Macrae where the Indians set up a rough white stone at
the bidding of their dearly loved French father.
In the midst of all this change and growth and bustle of new business,
Master Simon’s garden is still untouched. The roses and lilies, the pink
peonies and white hollyhocks, bloom on, undisturbed, year after year.
The great house of mellow brick, covered now with vines to the very
roof, looks out over the sea, unchanged. In the garden, romping down the
paths and tumbling on the grass, play Master Simon’s children to a far
generation. For but a few years, it seems, they frolic there among the
flowers and then, grown to men and women, they set off to do their share
of the world’s labour. And there, in June, when the linden tree blooms
and the bees hum loud in the branches, they sit upon the bench in the
Queen’s Garden and hear the story of Master Simon. Over and over, the
tale is told, by mother to daughter, by father to son, a long, long
story now, for it reaches back to the times of great Queen Elizabeth,
and it will go forward, who can tell how far. Each generation has
something new to add, some record of danger faced, of hardship endured,
of work well done for the good of all. And they who hear it, those
growing boys and girls, store it away as a memory to serve in time of
need, so that, when the time comes, they may do their part in the labour
of the world, that they may take up Master Simon’s work and bear it a
little further, that they may build higher and yet higher the roofs of
gold.
THE END
Printed in the United States of America
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ROBERT FULTON By ALICE C. SUTCLIFFE
“The volume is a thoroughly good piece of work and heartily to be
recommended.”—San Francisco Argonaut.
CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH By ROSSITER JOHNSON
“The picturesque story is one of the bright spots in the somewhat dreary
early American history, and all children should know it.”—New York Sun.
ROBERT E. LEE By BRADLEY GILMAN
“The story of Lee’s life is sympathetically told and with a fine
appreciation of those traits in his character that have commanded
universal respect.”—Review of Reviews.
NATHAN HALE By JEAN CHRISTIE ROOT
“There in more than the work of a gifted biographer here. There is a
message.”—New York World.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN By DANIEL E. WHEELER
“It is an excellent book, the author having used good judgment in
deciding what to leave out in a life about which there was so much to
say.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
THOMAS A. EDISON By FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER
“Cannot fail to appeal to every boy.”—The Nation.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN By E. LAWRENCE DUDLEY
“Filled with the adventure that fascinates the boy, the story is still
thoroughly authentic and reliable.”—Congregationalist and Christian
World.
OTHER NEW VOLUMES IN THE SERIES
GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER By F. S. DILLENBAUGH
WILLIAM PENN By RUPERT S. HOLLAND
DAVY CROCKETT By WILLIAM C. SPRAGUE
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS By MILDRED STAPLEY
JOHN PAUL JONES By L. FRANK TOOKER
U. S. GRANT By F. E. LOVELL COOMBS
LA SALLE By LOUISE S. HASBROUCK
DANIEL BOONE By LUCILE GULLIVER
LAFAYETTE By MARTHA F. CROW
GEORGE WASHINGTON By W. H. RIDEING
OTHER VOLUMES BEING PREPARED
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
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THE MACMILLAN JUVENILE LIBRARY
Each 12mo, $.50
THE HORSEMEN OF THE PLAINS By JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER
WHILE CAROLINE WAS GROWING By JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON
TWO CAPTAINS By C. T. BRADY
ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, AND THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS
HUNTING THE SNARK By LEWIS CARROLL
THE STORY OF THE ILIAD By ALFRED J. CHURCH
A LITTLE CAPTIVE LAD By B. M. DIX
SOUTHERN SOLDIER STORIES By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON
TWO BOYS IN THE TROPICS By E. H. FIGYELMESSY
HEARTS AND CORONETS By A. W. FOX
PICKETT’S GAP By HOMER GREENE
PEGGY STUART AT HOME
PEGGY STUART AT SCHOOL By G. E. JACKSON
THE SLOWCOACH By E. V. LUCAS
THE BOOK OF CHRISTMAS By HAMILTON W. MABIE
THE BEARS OF THE BLUE RIVER
THE LITTLE KING By CHARLES MAJOR
THE RAILWAY CHILDREN By E. NESBIT
CHILDREN’S TREASURY OF ENGLISH SONG By F. T. PALGRAVE
THE VOYAGE OF THE HOPPERGRASS By E. L. PEARSON
HERO TALES OF THE FAR NORTH By JACOB A. RIIS
THE BACKWOODSMEN By C. G. D. ROBERTS
HONEY SWEET By E. H. L. TURPIN
THE MAGIC FOREST By STEWART E. WHITE
THE STORY BOOK GIRLS By CHRISTINA G. WHYTE
DON’T GIVE UP THE SHIP By C. S. WOOD
THE DREAM FOX STORY BOOK
AUNT JIMMY’S WILL
TOMMY, ANNE AND THE THREE HEARTS By MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT
LITTLE LUCY’S WONDERFUL GLOBE By C. M. YONGE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York