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The Works of Eugene Field
Vol. X
The Writings in Prose and Verse of Eugene Field
SECOND BOOK OF TALES
[Frontispiece: Eugene Field. Etched by W. H. W. Bicknell.]
Charles Scribner's Sons
New York
1911
Copyright, 1896, by
Julia Sutherland Field.
NOTE
The tales down to and including "The Werewolf" in this volume have been
selected from those which remained unpublished in book form at the time
of Mr. Field's death. It was also thought desirable to take from
"Culture's Garland," and to incorporate in this volume, such sketches
as seemed most likely to prove of permanent value and of interest as
illustrating Mr. Field's earlier manner; and these, eight in number,
form the latter part of the book.
INTRODUCTION
Of all American poets Field, it seems to me, best understood the heart
of a child. Other sweet singers have given us the homely life of the
Western cabin, the unexpected tenderness of the mountaineer, the
loyalty and quaint devotion of the negro servant, but to Field alone,
and in preeminent degree, was given that keen insight into child
nature, that compassion for its faults, that sympathy with its sorrows
and that delight in its joyous innocence which will endear him to his
race as long as our language is read.
His poems too always kindle afresh that spark of child-life which still
lies smouldering in the hearts of us all, no matter how poor and
sorrowful our beginnings. As we read, how the old memories come back
to us! Old hopes, rosy with the expectation of the indefinite and
unknowable. Old misgivings and fears; old rompings and holidays and
precious idle hours. We know them all, and we know how true they are.
We remember in our own case the very hour and day, and how it all
happened and why, and what came of it,--joys and sorrows as real as our
keenest experiences since.
This is a heritage plentiful and noble,--and this heritage is Field's.
In the last paragraphs of that tender prose poem of "Bill--the Lokil
Editor"--one of the Profitable Tales--Bill--"alluz fond uv children 'nd
birds 'nd flowers"--Bill, who was like the old sycamore that the
lightning had struck,--with the vines spread all around and over it,
covering its scars and splintered branches--occurs this passage:
"----That's Bill perhaps as he stands up f'r jedgment--a miserable,
tremblin', 'nd unworthy thing, perhaps, but twined about, all over,
with singin' and pleadin' little children--and that is pleasin' in
God's sight, I know."
If Field had nothing else to bring he could say truthfully as he faced
his Master:
"I followed in your footsteps. I loved the children and the children
loved me."
F. HOPKINSON SMITH.
The Tales in this Book
HUMIN NATUR' ON THE HAN'BUL 'ND ST. JO.
THE MOTHER IN PARADISE
MR. AND MRS. BLOSSOM
DEATH AND THE SOLDIER
THE 'JININ' FARMS
THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS
THE CHILD'S LETTER
THE SINGER MOTHER
THE TWO WIVES
THE WOOING OF MISS WOPPIT
THE TALISMAN
GEORGE'S BIRTHDAY
SWEET-ONE-DARLING AND THE DREAM-FAIRIES
SWEET-ONE-DARLING AND THE MOON-GARDEN
SAMUEL COWLES AND HIS HORSE ROYAL
THE WEREWOLF
A MARVELLOUS INVENTION
THE STORY OF XANTHIPPE
BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE
MLLE. PRUD'HOMME'S BOOK
THE DEMAND FOR CONDENSED MUSIC
LEARNING AND LITERATURE
"DIE WALKUeRE" UND DER BOOMERANGELUNGEN
THE WORKS OF SAPPHO
HUMIN NATUR' ON THE HAN'BUL 'ND ST. JO
Durin' war times the gorillas hed torn up most uv the cypress ties an'
used 'em for kindlin' an' stove wood, an' the result wuz that when the
war wuz over there wuz n't anythink left uv the Han'bul 'nd St. Jo but
the rollin' stock 'nd the two streaks uv rails from one end uv the road
to the other. In the spring uv '67 I hed to go out into Kansas; and
takin' the Han'bul 'nd St. Jo at Palmyry Junction, I wuz n't long in
findin' out that the Han'bul 'nd St. Jo railroad wuz jist about the
wust cast of rollin' prairer I ever struck.
There wuz one bunk left when I boarded the sleepin'-car, and I hed
presence uv mind 'nuff to ketch on to it. It wuz then just about dusk,
an' the nigger that sort uv run things in the car sez to me: "Boss,"
sez he, "I 'll have to get you to please not to snore to-night, but to
be uncommon quiet."
"What for?" sez I. "Hain't I paid my two dollars, an' hain't I
entitled to all the luxuries uv the outfit?"
Then the nigger leant over an' told me that Colonel Elijah Gates, one
uv the directors uv the road, an' the richest man in Marion County, wuz
aboard, an' it wuz one uv the rules uv the company not to do anythink
to bother him or get him to sell his stock.
The nigger pointed out Colonel Gates, 'nd I took a look at him as he
sot readin' the "Palmyry Spectator." He wuz one of our kind uv
people--long, raw-boned, 'nd husky. He looked to be about sixty--may
be not quite on to sixty. He wuz n't bothered with much hair onto his
head, 'nd his beard was shaved, all except two rims or fringes uv it
that ran down the sides uv his face 'nd met underneath his chin. This
fringe filled up his neck so thet he did n't hev to wear no collar, 'nd
he had n't no jewelry about him excep' a big carnelian bosom pin that
hed the picture uv a woman's head on it in white. His specs sot well
down on his nose, 'nd I could see his blue eyes over 'em--small eyes,
but kind ur good-natured. Between his readin' uv his paper 'nd his
eatin' plug terbacker he kep' toler'ble busy till come bedtime. The
rest on us kep' as quiet as we could, for we knew it wuz an honor to
ride in the same sleepin'-car with the richest man in Marion County 'nd
a director uv the Han'bul 'nd St. Jo to boot.
Along 'bout eight o'clock the colonel reckoned he 'd tumble into bed.
When he 'd drawed his boots 'nd hung up his coat 'nd laid in a fresh
hunk uv nat'ral leaf, he crawled into the best bunk, 'nd presently we
heerd him sleepin'. There wuz nuthin' else for the rest uv us to do
but to foller suit, 'nd we did.
It must have been about an hour later--say along about Prairer
City--that a woman come aboard with a baby. There war n't no bunk for
her, but the nigger allowed that she might set back near the stove, for
the baby 'peared to be kind ov sick-like, 'nd the woman looked like she
had been cryin'. Whether it wuz the jouncin' uv the car, or whether
the young one wuz hungry or hed a colic into it, I did n't know, but
anyhow the train had n't pulled out uv Prairer City afore the baby
began to take on. The nigger run back as fast as he could, 'nd told
the young woman that she 'd have to keep that baby quiet because
Colonel 'Lijy Gates, one uv the directors uv the road, wuz in the car
'nd wunt be disturbed. The young woman caught up the baby scart-like,
'nd talked soothin' to it, 'nd covered its little face with her shawl,
'nd done all them things thet women do to make babies go to sleep.
But the baby _would_ cry, and, in spite of all the young woman 'nd the
nigger could do, Colonel Elijah Gates heard the baby cryin', and so he
waked up. First his two blue yarn socks come through the curtains, 'nd
then his long legs 'nd long body 'nd long face hove into sight. He
come down the car to the young woman, 'nd looked at her over his specs.
Did n't seem to be the least bit mad; jest solemn 'nd bizness like.
"My dear madam," sez he to the young woman, "you must do sumpin' to
keep that child quiet. These people have all paid for their bunks, 'nd
they are entitled to a good night's sleep. Of course I know how 't is
with young children--_will_ cry _sometimes_--have raised 'leven uv 'em
myself, 'nd know, all about 'em. But as a director uv the Han'-bul 'nd
St. Jo I 've got to pertect the rights of these other folks. So jist
keep the baby quiet as you kin."
Now, there war n't nothin' cross in the colonel's tone; the colonel wuz
as kind 'nd consid'rit as could be expected uv a man who hed so much
responsibility a-restin' onto him. But the young woman was kind uv
nervous, 'nd after the colonel went back 'nd got into his bunk the
young woman sniffled and worrited and seemed like she had lost her
wits, 'nd the baby kep' cryin' jist as hard as ever.
Waal, there wuz n't much sleepin' to be done in that car, for what with
the baby cryin', 'nd the young woman a-sayin', "Oh, dear!" 'nd "Oh,
my!" and the nigger a-prancin' round like the widder bewitched--with
all this goin' on, sleep wuz out uv the question. Folks began to wake
up 'nd put their heads outern their bunks to see what wuz the doggone
matter. This made things pleasanter for the young woman. The colonel
stood it as long as he could, and then he got up a second time 'nd come
down the car 'nd looked at the young woman over his specs.
"Now, as I wuz tellin' you afore," sez he, "I hain't makin' no
complaint uv myself, for I 've raised a family of 'leven children, 'nd
I know all about 'em. But these other folks here in the car have paid
for a good night's sleep, 'nd it 's my duty as a director uv the
Han'bul 'nd St. Jo to see that they get it. Seems to me like you ought
to be able to keep that child quiet--you can't make me believe that
there's any use for a child to be carryin' on so. Sumpin 's hurtin'
it--I know sumpin 's hurtin' it by the way it cries. Now, you look 'nd
see if there ain't a pin stickin' into it somewhere; I 've raised
'leven children, 'nd that 's jist the way they used to cry when there
wuz a pin stickin' em."
He reckoned he 'd find things all right this time, 'nd he went back to
his bunk feelin' toler'ble satisfied with himself. But the young woman
could n't find no pin stickin' the baby, 'nd, no matter how much she
stewed and worrited, the baby kep' right on cryin', jest the same.
Holy smoke! but how that baby _did_ cry.
Now, I reckoned that the colonel would be gettin' almighty mad if this
thing kep' up much longer. A man may raise 'leven children as easy as
rollin' off 'n a log, 'nd yet the twelfth one, that is n't his at all,
may break him. There is ginerally a last straw, even when it comes to
the matter uv children.
So when the colonel riz feet foremost for the third time outern his
bunk that night--or, I should say, mornin', for it was mighty near
mornin' now--we looked for hail Columby.
"Look a-here, my good woman," sez he to the young woman with the baby,
"as I wuz tellin' you afore, you _must_ do sumpin to keep that child
quiet. It 'll never do to keep all these folks awake like this. They
've paid for a good night's sleep, 'nd it 's my duty as a director uv
the Han'bul 'nd St. Jo to pertest ag'in' this disturbance. I 've
raised a family uv 'leven children, 'nd I know, as well as I know
anythink, that that child is hungry. No child ever cries like that
when it is n't hungry, so I insist on your nursin' it 'nd givin' us
peace 'nd quiet."
Then the young woman began to sniffle.
"Law me, sir," sez the young woman, "I ain't the baby's mother--I 'm
only just tendin' it."
The colonel got pretty mad then; his face got red 'nd his voice kind uv
trembled--he wuz so mad.
"Where is its mother?" sez the colonel. "Why is n't she here takin'
care uv this hungry 'nd cryin' child like she ought to be?"
"She 's in the front car, sir," sez the young woman, chokin' up. "She
's in the front car--in a box, dead; we 're takin' the body 'nd the
baby back home."
Now what would you or me have done--what would _any_ man have done then
'nd there? Jest what the colonel done.
The colonel did n't wait for no second thought; he jest reached out his
big bony hands 'nd he sez, "Young woman, gi' me that baby"--sez it so
quiet 'nd so gentle like that seemed like it wuz the baby's mother that
wuz a-speakin'.
The colonel took the baby, and--now, may be you won't believe me--the
colonel held that baby 'nd rocked it in his arms 'nd talked to it like
it had been his own child. And the baby seemed to know that it lay
ag'in' a lovin' heart, for, when it heerd the ol' man's kind voice 'nd
saw his smilin' face 'nd felt the soothin' rockin' uv his arms, the
baby stopped its grievin' 'nd cryin', 'nd cuddled up close to the
colonel's breast, 'nd begun to coo 'nd laff.
The colonel called the nigger. "Jim," sez he, "you go ahead 'nd tell
the conductor to stop the train at the first farm-house. We 've got to
have some milk for this child--some warm milk with sugar into it; I
hain't raised a family uv 'leven children for nothin'."
The baby did n't cry no more that night; leastwise we did n't hear it
if it _did_ cry. And what if we had heerd it? Blessed if I don't
think every last one of us would have got up to help tend that lonesome
little thing.
That wuz more 'n twenty years ago, but I kin remember the last words I
heerd the colonel say: "No matter if it _does_ cry," sez he. "It don't
make no more noise than a cricket, nohow; 'nd I reckon that being a
director uv the road I kin stop the train 'nd let off anybody that
don't like the way the Han'bul 'nd St. Jo does business."
Twenty years ago! Colonel Elijah Gates is sleepin' in the Palmyry
buryin'-ground; likely as not the baby has growed up--leastwise the
Han'bul 'nd St. Jo has; everythink is different now--everythink has
changed--everythink except humin natur', 'nd that is the same, it allus
has been, and it allus will be, I reckon.
1888.
THE MOTHER IN PARADISE
A mother came to the gateway of Heaven. She was aged and weary. Her
body was bowed and her face was wrinkled and withered, for her burden
had been the burden of care and trouble and sorrow. So she was glad to
be done with life and to seek at the gateway of Heaven the fulfilment
of the Promise that had been her solace through all the hard, bitter
years.
An angel met the Mother at the gateway, and put her arms about the
drooping figure, and spoke gracious, tender words.
"Whom seekest thou?" asked the angel.
"I seek my dear ones who came hither before me," answered the Mother.
"They are very many--my father, my mother, my husband, my
children--they all are here together, and for many and weary years I
have lived in my loneliness, with no other thing to cheer me but the
thought that I should follow them in good time."
"Yes, they are here and they await thee," said the angel. "Lean upon
me, dear Mother, and I will lead thee to them."
Then the angel led the way through the garden of Paradise, and the
angel and the Mother talked as they walked together.
"I am not weary now," said the Mother, "and my heart is not troubled."
"It is the grace of Heaven that restoreth thee, dear Mother," quoth the
angel. "Presently thou shalt be filled with the new life, and thou
shalt be young again; and thou shalt sing with rapture, and thy soul
shall know the endless ecstasy of Heaven."
"Alas, I care not to be young again," saith the Mother. "I care only
to find and to be forever with my beloved ones."
As they journeyed in their way a company came to meet them. Then the
Mother saw and knew her dear ones--even though the heavenly life had
glorified their countenances, the Mother knew them, and she ran to
greet them, and there was great joy to her and to them. Meanwhile the
angel kept steadfastly at her side.
Now the Mother, when she had embraced her dear ones, looked at each of
them separately once more, and then she said: "Ye are indeed my
beloved--my mother, my father, my husband, and my children! But there
is one who should be of your company whom I do not see--my babe, my
little helpless babe that came hither alone so many, many years ago.
My heart fainteth, my breast yearneth for that dear little lamb of
mine! Come, let us go together and search for her; or await me here
under these pleasant trees while I search and call in this fair garden
for my dear, lost little babe!"
The others answered never a word, but the angel said: "I will go with
thee, Mother, and together we shall find thy child."
As they went on their way the angel said: "Shall I tell thee of myself?
For I was a little helpless babe when I came hither to this fair garden
and into this heavenly life."
"Perchance thou knowest her, my precious lambkin!" cried the Mother.
"I was a babe when I came hither," said the angel. "See how I am grown
and what happiness hath been mine! The compassion of divinity hath
protected and fostered me, and hath led me all these years in the peace
that passeth all human understanding. God hath instructed me in
wisdom, and He shall instruct thee, too; for all who come hither are as
children in His sight, and they shall grow in wisdom and in grace
eternally."
"But my babe--my own lost little one whom I have not held in these arms
for so many weary years--shall she not still be my little babe, and
shall I not cradle her in my bosom?" asked the Mother.
"Thy child shall be restored to thee," said the angel; "for she
yearneth for thee even as thou yearnest for her. Only with this
difference, dear Mother: Thy child hath known, in the grace of heavenly
wisdom, that at the last thy earthly sorrow should surely be rewarded
with the joys of the endless reunion in Paradise!"
"Then she hath thought of me and longed for me to come!" cried the
Mother. "And my lost babe shall be restored and shall know her mother
again!"
"Ay, she loveth thee fondly," said the angel, "and she hath awaited thy
coming, lo, these many years. Presently thine eyes shall be opened and
thou shalt see her standing before thee in her heavenly raiment whiter
than snow, and around her neck thou shalt see her wearing most precious
pearls--the tears which thou hast shed, oh lonely Mother! and which are
the pearls the little ones in Heaven gather up and cherish as an
adornment most pleasing unto God and them."
Then the Mother felt that her eyes were opened, and she turned and
looked upon the angel. And the Mother saw that the angel was her lost
beloved child whom she was seeking: not the helpless babe that she had
thought to find, but a maiden of such heavenly beauty and gentleness as
only the dwellers in Paradise behold and know. And the Mother spread
her arms, and gave a great cry of joy, and folded her very dear one to
her bosom.
Then presently they returned together to the others. And there was
rapturous acclaim in Paradise, and it was to God's sweet pleasance that
it was so. For a Mother and her beloved communed in the holy
companionship of love everlasting.
MR. AND MRS. BLOSSOM
The name we meant to call her was Annette, for that was a name I always
liked. 'Way back, before I got married, I made up my mind that if I ever
had a daughter I should call her Annette. My intention was good enough,
but circumstances of a peculiar nature led me to abandon the idea which
in anticipation afforded me really a lot of pleasure. My circumstances
have always been humble. I say this in no spirit of complaint. We have
very much to be thankful for, and we are particularly grateful for the
blessing which heaven has bestowed upon us in the person of our dear
child--our daughter who comes from school to-night to spend Thanksgiving
with us and with our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Blossom. I must tell you how
we became acquainted with the Blossoms.
When our baby was two years old I used to sit of mornings, before going
to my work, on the front steps, watching the baby playing on the
sidewalk. This pleasantest half-hour of the day I divided between the
little one and my pipe. One morning, as I sat there smoking and as the
little one was toddling to and fro on the sidewalk, a portly,
nice-looking old gentleman came down the street, and, as luck would have
it, the baby got right in his path, and before I could get to her she
tangled herself all up with the old gentleman's legs and cane. The old
gentleman seemed very much embarrassed, but, bless your soul! the baby
liked it!
"A pretty child--a beautiful child!" said the old gentleman, and then he
inquired: "Boy or girl?"
"Girl," says I, and I added: "Two years old and weighs thirty pounds."
"That must be a great deal for a little girl to weigh," said the old
gentleman, and I saw that his eyes lingered lovingly and yearningly upon
the child. I am sure he wanted to say more, but all at once, as if he
suddenly recollected himself, he glanced furtively up the street, and
then, turning as suddenly the other way, he resumed his course downtown.
I thought to myself that he was a kindly old gentleman, a trifle queer,
perhaps, but of a gentle nature.
Three or four times within a week after that a similar experience with
this old gentleman befell me and the baby. He would greet her cheerily;
sometimes he would pat her head, and I saw that his heart warmed toward
her. But all the time he talked with us he seemed to act as if he feared
he was being watched, and he left us abruptly--sometimes breaking away in
the middle of a sentence as if he was afraid he might say something he
ought not to say. At last, however, I learned that his name was Blossom,
and that Mrs. Blossom and he lived alone in a fine house up yonder in a
more fashionable part of our street. In an outburst of confidence one
morning he told me that he was very fond of children, and that he felt
that much was gone out of his life because no little one had ever come to
Mary and himself.
"But," he added with an air of assumed cheerfulness, "as Mary does not
like children at all, it is perhaps for the best that none has ever come
to us."
I now understood why Mr. Blossom was so cautious in his attentions to our
baby; he was fearful of being observed by his wife; he felt that it was
his duty to humor her in her disinclination to children. I pitied the
dear old gentleman, and for the same reason conceived a violent dislike
for Mrs. Blossom.
But my wife Cordelia told me something one day that set my heart to
aching for both the two old people.
"A sweet-looking old lady passed the house this afternoon," said
Cordelia, "and took notice of baby asleep in my arms on the porch. She
stopped and asked me all about her and presently she kissed her, and then
I saw that she was crying softly to herself. I asked her if she had ever
lost a little girl, and she said no. 'I have always been childless,'
said the sweet old lady. 'In all the years of my wifehood I have
besought but one blessing of heaven--the joy of maternity. My prayers
are unanswered, and it is perhaps better so.' She told me then that her
husband did not care for children; she could hardly reconcile his
professed antipathy to them with his warm, gentle, and loyal nature; but
it was well, if he did not want children, that none had come."
"What was the old lady's name?" I asked.
"Mrs. Blossom," said my wife Cordelia.
I whistled softly to myself. Then I told Cordelia of my experience with
Mr. Blossom, and we wondered where and when and how this pathetic comedy
of cross-purposes would end. We talked the matter over many a time after
that, and we agreed that it would be hard to find an instance of
deception more touching than that which we had met with in the daily life
of Mr. and Mrs. Blossom. Meanwhile the two old people became more and
more attached to our precious baby. Every morning brought Mr. Blossom
down the street with a smile and a caress and a tender word for the
little one, that toddled to meet him and overwhelm him with her innocent
prattle. Every afternoon found the sweet-looking old lady in front of
our house, fondling our child, and feeding her starving maternal instinct
upon the little one's caresses. Each one--the old gentleman and the old
lady--each one confessed by action and by word to an overwhelming love
for children, yet between them stood that pitiless lie, conceived of the
tenderest consideration for each other, but resulting in lifelong misery.
I tell you, it was mighty hard sometimes for Cordelia and me not to break
out with the truth!
It occurred to us both that there would eventually come a time when the
friendship of Mr. and Mrs. Blossom would be precious indeed to our
daughter. We had great hopes of that child, and all our day-dreams
involved her. She must go to school, she must be educated, she must want
nothing; there was no conceivable sacrifice which Cordelia and I would
not make gladly for our little girl. Would we be willing to share her
love with these two childless old people, who yearned for that love and
were ready to repay it with every benefit which riches can supply? We
asked ourselves that question a thousand times. God helped us to answer
it.
The winter set in early and suddenly. We were awakened one night by that
hoarse, terrifying sound which chills the parent heart with anxiety. Our
little one was flushed with fever, and there was a rattling in her throat
when she breathed. When the doctor came he told us not to be frightened;
this was a mild form of croup, he said. His medicines seemed to give
relief, for presently the child breathed easier and slept. Next morning
an old gentleman on his way downtown wondered why the baby was not out to
greet him with a hilarious shout; he felt that here--all about his
heart--which told him that two dimpled hands had taken hold and held him
fast. An old lady came to the door that day and asked questions
hurriedly and in whispers, and went away crying to herself under her veil.
When it came night again the baby was as good as well. I was rocking her
and telling her a story, when the door-bell rang. A moment later--I
could hardly believe my senses, but Mr. Blossom stood before me.
"I heard she was sick," said he, coming up to the cradle and taking the
baby's hand awkwardly, but tenderly, in his. "You can never know how I
have suffered all day, for this little one has grown very dear to me, and
I dare not think what I should do if evil were to befall her. To-night I
told my wife a lie. I said that I had a business engagement that called
me downtown; I told her _that_ in order to hasten here without letting
her know the truth. She does not like children; I would not for the
world have her know how tenderly I love this little one."
He was still talking to me in this wise when I heard a step upon the
stairway. I went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Blossom stood there.
"I have worried all day about the baby," she said, excitedly.
"Fortunately, Mr. Blossom was called downtown this evening, and I have
run in to ask how our precious baby is. I must go away at once, for he
does not care for children, you know, and I would not have him know how
dear this babe has grown to me!"
Mrs. Blossom stood on the threshold as she said these words. And then
she saw the familiar form of the dear old gentleman bending over the
cradle, holding the baby's hands in his. Mr. Blossom had recognized his
wife's voice and heard her words.
"Mary!" he cried, and he turned and faced her. She said, "Oh,
John!"--that was all, and her head drooped upon her breast. So there
they stood before each other, confronted by the revelation which they had
thought buried in long and many years.
She was the first to speak, for women are braver and stronger than men.
She accused herself and took all the blame. But he would not listen to
her self-reproaches. And they spoke to each other--I know not what
things, only that they were tender and sweet and of consolation. I
remember that at the last he put his arm about her as if he had not been
an aged man and she were not white-haired and bowed, but as if they two
were walking in the springtime of their love.
"It is God's will," he said, "and let us not rebel against it. The
journey to the end is but a little longer now; we have come so far
together, and surely we can go on alone."
"No, not alone," I said, for the inspiration came to me then. "Our
little child yonder--God has lent this lambkin to our keeping--share her
love with us. There is so much, so very much you can do for her which we
cannot do, for we are poor, and you are rich. Help us to care for her
and share her love with us, and she shall be your child and ours."
That was the compact between us fifteen years ago, and they have been
happy, very happy years. Blossom--we call her Blossom, after the dear
old friends who have been so good to her and to us--she comes from school
to-night, and to-morrow we shall sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with our
daughter. We always speak of her as "our daughter," for, you know, she
belongs now no more to Cordelia and me than to Mr. and Mrs. Blossom.
DEATH AND THE SOLDIER
A soldier, who had won imperishable fame on the battlefields of his
country, was confronted by a gaunt stranger, clad all in black and
wearing an impenetrable mask.
"Who are you that you dare to block my way?" demanded the soldier.
Then the stranger drew aside his mask, and the soldier knew that he was
Death.
"Have you come for me?" asked the soldier. "If so, I will not go with
you; so go your way alone."
But Death held out his bony hand and beckoned to the soldier.
"No," cried the soldier, resolutely; "my time is not come. See, here
are the histories I am writing--no hand but mine can finish them--I
will not go till they are done!"
"I have ridden by your side day and night," said Death; "I have hovered
about you on a hundred battlefields, but no sight of me could chill
your heart till now, and now I hold you in my power. Come!"
And with these words Death seized upon the soldier and strove to bear
him hence, but the soldier struggled so desperately that he prevailed
against Death, and the strange phantom departed alone. Then when he
had gone the soldier found upon his throat the imprint of Death's cruel
fingers--so fierce had been the struggle. And nothing could wash away
the marks--nay, not all the skill in the world could wash them away,
for they were disease, lingering, agonizing, fatal disease. But with
quiet valor the soldier returned to his histories, and for many days
thereafter he toiled upon them as the last and best work of his noble
life.
"How pale and thin the soldier is getting," said the people. "His hair
is whitening and his eyes are weary. He should not have undertaken the
histories--the labor is killing him."
They did not know of his struggle with Death, nor had they seen the
marks upon the soldier's throat. But the physicians who came to him,
and saw the marks of Death's cruel fingers, shook their heads and said
the soldier could not live to complete the work upon which his whole
heart was set. And the soldier knew it, too, and many a time he paused
in his writing and laid his pen aside and bowed his head upon his hands
and strove for consolation in the thought of the great fame he had
already won. But there was no consolation in all this. So when Death
came a second time he found the soldier weak and trembling and
emaciated.
"It would be vain of you to struggle with me now," said Death. "My
poison is in your veins, and, see, my dew is on your brow. But you are
a brave man, and I will not bear you with me till you have asked one
favor, which I will grant."
"Give me an hour to ask the favor," said the soldier. "There are so
many things--my histories and all--give me an hour that I may decide
what I shall ask."
And as Death tarried, the soldier communed with himself. Before he
closed his eyes forever, what boon should he ask of Death? And the
soldier's thoughts sped back over the years, and his whole life came to
him like a lightning flash--the companionship and smiles of kings, the
glories of government and political power, the honors of peace, the
joys of conquest, the din of battle, the sweets of a quiet home life
upon a western prairie, the gentle devotion of a wife, the clamor of
noisy boys, and the face of a little girl--ah, there his thoughts
lingered and clung.
"Time to complete our work--our books--our histories," counselled
Ambition. "Ask Death for time to do this last and crowning act of our
great life."
But the soldier's ears were deaf to the cries of Ambition; they heard
another voice--the voice of the soldier's heart--and the voice
whispered: "Nellie--Nellie--Nellie." That was all--no other words but
those, and the soldier struggled to his feet and stretched forth his
hands and called to Death; and, hearing him calling, Death came and
stood before him.
"I have made my choice," said the soldier.
"The books?" asked Death, with a scornful smile.
"No, not them," said the soldier, "but my little girl--my Nellie! Give
me a lease of life till I have held her in these arms, and then come
for me and I will go!"
Then Death's hideous aspect was changed; his stern features relaxed and
a look of pity came upon them. And Death said, "It shall be so," and
saying this he went his way.
Now the soldier's child was far away--many, many leagues from where the
soldier lived, beyond a broad, tempestuous ocean. She was not, as you
might suppose, a little child, although the soldier spoke of her as
such. She was a wife and a mother; yet even in her womanhood she was
to the soldier's heart the same little girl the soldier had held upon
his knee many and many a time while his rough hands weaved prairie
flowers in her soft, fair curls. And the soldier called her Nellie
now, just as he did then, when she sat on his knee and prattled of her
dolls. This is the way of the human heart.
It having been noised about that the soldier was dying and that Nellie
had been sent for across the sea, all the people vied with each other
in soothing the last moments of the famous man, for he was beloved by
all and all were bound to him by bonds of patriotic gratitude, since he
had been so brave a soldier upon the battlefields of his country. But
the soldier did not heed their words of sympathy; the voice of fame,
which, in the past, had stirred a fever in his blood and fallen most
pleasantly upon his ears, awakened no emotion in his bosom now. The
soldier thought only of Nellie, and he awaited her coming.
An old comrade came and pressed his hand, and talked of the times when
they went to the wars together; and the old comrade told of this battle
and of that, and how such a victory was won and such a city taken. But
the soldier's ears heard no sound of battle now, and his eyes could see
no flash of sabre nor smoke of war.
So the people came and spoke words of veneration and love and hope, and
so with quiet fortitude, but with a hungry heart, the soldier waited
for Nellie, his little girl.
She came across the broad, tempestuous ocean. The gulls flew far out
from land and told the winds, and the winds flew further still and said
to the ship: "Speed on, O ship! speed on in thy swift, straight course,
for you are bearing a treasure to a father's heart!"
Then the ship leapt forward in her pathway, and the waves were very
still, and the winds kept whispering "Speed on, O ship," till at last
the ship was come to port and the little girl was clasped in the
soldier's arms.
Then for a season the soldier seemed quite himself again, and people
said "He will live," and they prayed that he might. But their hopes
and prayers were vain. Death's seal was on the soldier, and there was
no release.
The last days of the soldier's life were the most beautiful of all--but
what a mockery of ambition and fame and all the grand, pretentious
things of life they were! They were the triumph of a human heart, and
what is better or purer or sweeter than that?
No thought of the hundred battlefields upon which his valor had shown
conspicuous came to the soldier now--nor the echo of his eternal
fame--nor even yet the murmurs of a sorrowing people. Nellie was by
his side, and his hungry, fainting heart fed on her dear love and his
soul went back with her to the years long agone.
Away beyond the western horizon upon the prairie stands a little home
over which the vines trail. All about it is the tall, waving grass,
and over yonder is the swale with a legion of chattering blackbirds
perched on its swaying reeds and rushes. Bright wild flowers bloom on
every side, the quail whistles on the pasture fence, and from his home
in the chimney corner the cricket tries to chirrup an echo to the
lonely bird's call. In this little prairie home we see a man holding
on his knee a little girl, who is telling him of her play as he smooths
her fair curls or strokes her tiny velvet hands; or perhaps she is
singing him one of her baby songs, or asking him strange questions of
the great wide world that is so new to her; or perhaps he binds the
wild flowers she has brought into a little nosegay for her new gingham
dress, or--but we see it all, and so, too, does the soldier, and so
does Nellie, and they hear the blackbird's twitter and the quail's
shrill call and the cricket's faint echo, and all about them is the
sweet, subtle, holy fragrance of memory.
And so at last, when Death came and the soldier fell asleep forever,
Nellie, his little girl, was holding his hands and whispering to him of
those days. Hers were the last words he heard, and by the peace that
rested on his face when he was dead you might have thought the soldier
was dreaming of a time when Nellie prattled on his knee and bade him
weave the wild flowers in her curls.
THE 'JININ' FARMS
You see Bill an' I wuz jest like brothers; wuz raised on 'jinin' farms:
he wuz _his_ folks' only child, an' _I_ wuz _my_ folks' only one. So,
nat'ril like, we growed up together, lovin' an' sympathizin' with each
other. What _I_ knowed, I told _Bill_, an' what _Bill_ knowed, _he_
told _me_, an' what neither on us knowed--why, that warn't wuth knowin'!
If I had n't got over my braggin' days, I 'd allow that, in our time,
Bill an' I wuz jest about the sparkin'est beaus in the township;
leastwise that's what the girls thought; but, to be honest about it,
there wuz only two uv them girls we courted, Bill an' I, _he_ courtin'
_one_ an' I t'other. You see we sung in the choir, an' as our good
luck would have it we got sot on the sopranner an' the alto, an'
bimeby--oh, well, after beauin' 'em round a spell--a year or so, for
that matter--we up an' married 'em, an' the old folks gin us the farms,
'jinin' farms, where we boys had lived all our lives. Lizzie, my wife,
had always been powerful friendly with Marthy, Bill's wife; them two
girls never met up but what they wuz huggin' an' kissin' an' carryin'
on, like girls does; for women ain't like men--they can't control
theirselves an' their feelin's, like the stronger sext does.
I tell you, it wuz happy times for Lizzie an' me and Marthy an'
Bill--happy times on the 'jinin' farms, with the pastures full uv fat
cattle, an' the barns full uv hay an' grain, and the twin cottages full
uv love an' contentment! Then when Cyrus come--our little boy--our
first an' only one! why, when _he_ come, I wuz jest _so_ happy an' so
grateful that if I had n't been a man I guess I 'd have hollered--maybe
cried--with joy. Wanted to call the little tyke Bill, but Bill would
n't hear to nothin' but Cyrus. You see, he 'd bought a cyclopeedy the
winter we wuz all marr'ed an' had been readin' in it uv a great foreign
warrior named Cyrus that lived a long spell ago.
"Land uv Goshen, Bill!" sez I, "you don't reckon the baby 'll ever be a
warrior?"
"Well, I don't know about that," sez Bill. "There 's no tellin'. At
any rate, Cyrus Ketcham has an uncommon sound for a name; so Cyrus it
must be, an' when he 's seven years old I 'll gin him the finest Morgan
colt in the deestrick!"
So we called him Cyrus, an' he grew up lovin' and bein' loved by
everybody.
Well, along about two years--or, say, eighteen months or so--after
Cyrus come to us a little girl baby come to Bill an' Marthy, an' of all
the cunnin' sweet little things you ever seen that little girl baby was
the cunnin'est an' sweetest! Looked jest like one of them foreign
crockery figgers you buy in city stores--all pink an' white, with big
brown eyes here, an' a teeny, weeney mouth there, an' a nose an' ears,
you'd have bet they wuz wax--they wuz so small an' fragile. Never
darst hold her for fear I 'd break her, an' it liked to skeered me to
death to see the way Marthy and Lizzie would kind uv toss her round an'
trot her--so--on their knees or pat her--so--on the back when she wuz
collicky like the wimmin folks sez all healthy babies is afore they 're
three months old.
"You 're goin' to have the namin' uv her," sez Bill to me.
"Yes," sez Marthy; "we made it up atween us long ago that you should
have the namin' uv _our_ baby like _we_ had the namin' uv yourn."
Then, kind uv hectorin' like--for I was always a powerful tease--I sez:
"How would Cleopatry do for a name? or Venis? I have been readin' the
cyclopeedy myself, I 'd have you know!"
An' then I laffed one on them provokin' laffs uv mine--oh, I tell ye, I
was the worst feller for hectorin' folks you ever seen! But I meant it
all in fun, for when I suspicioned they did n't like my funnin', I sez:
"Bill," sez I, "an' Marthy, there 's only one name I 'd love above all
the rest to call your little lambkin, an' that's the dearest name on
earth to me--the name uv Lizzie, my wife!"
That jest suited 'em to a T, an' always after that she wuz called
leetle Lizzie, an' it sot on her, that name did, like _it_ was made for
_her_, an' _she_ for _it_. We made it up then--perhaps more in fun
than anything else--that when the children growed up, Cyrus an' leetle
Lizzie, they should get marr'd together, an' have both the farms an' be
happy, an' be a blessin' to us all in our old age. We made it up in
fun, perhaps, but down in our hearts it wuz our prayer jest the same,
and God heard the prayer an' granted it to be so.
They played together, they lived together; together they tended
deestrick school an' went huckleberryin'; there wuz huskin's an'
spellin' bees an' choir meetin's an' skatin' an' slidin' down-hill--oh,
the happy times uv youth! an' all those times our boy Cyrus an' their
leetle Lizzie went lovin'ly together!
What made me start so--what made me ask of Bill one time: "Are we
a-gettin' old, Bill?" that wuz the Thanksgivin' night when, as we set
round the fire in Bill's front-room, Cyrus come to us, holdin' leetle
Lizzie by the hand, an' they asked us could they get marr'd come next
Thanksgivin' time? Why, it seemed only yesterday that they wuz chicks
together! God! how swift the years go by when they are happy years!
"Reuben," sez Bill to me, "le's go down' cellar and draw a pitcher uv
cider!"
You see that, bein' men, it wuz n't for us to make a show uv ourselves.
Marty an' Lizzie just hugged each other an' laughed an' cried--they wuz
so glad! Then they hugged Cyrus an' leetle Lizzie; and talk and laff?
Well, it did beat all how them women folks did talk and laugh, all at
one time! Cyrus laffed, too; an' then he said he reckoned he 'd go out
an' throw some fodder in to the steers, and Bill an' I--well, _we_ went
down-cellar to draw that pitcher uv cider.
It ain't for me to tell now uv the meller sweetness uv their courtin'
time; I could n't do it if I tried. Oh, how we loved 'em both! Yet,
once in the early summer-time, our boy Cyrus he come to me an' said:
"Father, I want you to let me go away for a spell."
"Cyrus, my boy! Go away?"
"Yes, father; President Linkern has called for soldiers; father, you
have always taught me to obey the voice of Duty. That voice summons me
now."
"God in heaven," I thought, "you have given us this child only to take
him from us!"
But then came the second thought: "Steady, Reuben! You are a man; _be_
a man! Steady, Reuben; be a man!"
"Yer mother," sez I, "yer mother--it will break her heart!"
"She leaves it all to you, father."
"But--the other--the other, Cyrus--leetle Lizzie--ye know!"
"She is content," sez he.
A storm swep' through me like a cyclone. It wuz all Bill's fault; that
warrior-name had done it all--the cyclopeedy with its lies had pizened
Bill's mind to put this trouble on me an' mine!
No, no, a thousand times no! These wuz coward feelin's an' they
misbecome me; the ache herein this heart uv mine had no business there.
The better part uv me called to me an' said: "Pull yourself together,
Reuben Ketcham, and be a man!"
Well, after he went away, leetle Lizzie wuz more to us 'n ever before;
wuz at our house all the time; called Lizzie "mother"; wuz contented,
in her woman's way, willin' to do her part, waitin' an' watchin' an'
prayin' for him to come back. They sent him boxes of good things every
fortnight, mother an' leetle Lizzie did; there wuz n't a minute uv the
day that they wuz n't talkin' or thinkin' uv him.
Well--ye--see--I must tell it my own way--he got killed. In the very
first battle Cyrus got killed. The rest uv the soldiers turnt to
retreat, because there wuz too many for 'em on the other side. But
Cyrus stood right up; he wuz the warrior Bill allowed he wuz goin' to
be; our boy wuz n't the kind to run. They tell me there wuz bullet
holes here, an' here, an' here--all over his breast. We always knew
our boy wuz a hero!
Ye can thank God ye wuz n't at the 'jinin' farms when the news come
that he 'd got killed. The neighbors, they were there, of course, to
kind uv hold us up an' comfort us. Bill an' I sot all day in the
woodshed, holdin' hands an' lookin' away from each other, so; never
said a word; jest sot there, sympathizin' an' holdin' hands. If we 'd
been women, Bill an' I would uv cried an' beat our forrids an' hung
round each other's neck, like the womenfolks done. Bein' we wuz men,
we jest set there in the woodshed, away from all the rest, holdin'
hands an' sympathizin'.
From that time on, leetle Lizzie wuz our daughter--our very daughter,
all that wuz left to us uv our boy. She never shed a tear; crep' like
a shadder 'round the house an' up the front walk an' through the
garden. Her heart wuz broke. You could see it in the leetle lambkin's
eyes an' hear it in her voice. Wanted to tell her sometimes when she
kissed me and called me "father"--wanted to tell her, "Leetle Lizzie,
let me help ye bear yer load. Speak out the sorrer that's in yer
broken heart; speak it out, leetle one, an' let me help yer bear yer
load!"
But it is n't for a man to have them feelin's--leastwise, it is n't for
him to tell uv 'em. So I held my peace and made no sign.
She jest drooped, an' pined, an' died. One mornin' in the spring she
wuz standin' in the garden, an' all at oncet she threw her arms up, so,
an' fell upon her face, an' when they got to her all thet wuz left to
us uv leetle Lizzie wuz her lifeless leetle body. I can't tell of what
happened next--uv the funeral an' all that. I said this wuz in the
spring, an' so it wuz all around us; but it wuz cold and winter _here_.
One day mother sez to me: "Reuben," sez she, softlike, "Marthy an' I is
goin' to the buryin' ground for a spell. Don't you reckon it would be
a good time for you to step over an' see Bill while we 're gone?"
"Mebbe so, mother," sez I.
It wuz a pretty day. Cuttin' across lots, I thought to myself what I
'd say to Bill to kind uv comfort him. I made it up that I 'd speak
about the time when we wuz boys together; uv how we used to slide down
the meetin'-house hill, an' go huckleberryin'; uv how I jumped into the
pond one day an' saved him from bein' drownded; uv the spellin' school,
the huskin' bees, the choir meetin's, the sparkin' times; of the
swimmin' hole, the crow's nest in the pine-tree, the woodchuck's hole
in the old pasture lot; uv the sunny summer days an' the snug winter
nights when we wuz boys, an' happy! And then----
No, no! I could n't go on like that! I 'd break down. A man can't be
a man more 'n jest so far!
Why did mother send me over to see Bill? I 'd better stayed to home!
I felt myself chokin' up; if I had n't took a chew uv terbacker, I 'd
'ave been cryin', in a minute!
The nearer I got to Bill's, the worst I hated to go in. Standin' on
the stoop, I could hear the tall clock tickin' solemnly
inside--"tick-tock, tick-tock," jest as plain as if I wuz settin' aside
uv it. The door wuz shet, yet I knew jest what Bill wuz doin'; he was
settin' in the old red easy-chair, lookin' down at the floor--like
this. Strange, ain't it, how sometimes when you love folks you know
jest what they 're doin', without knowin' anything about it!
There warn't no use knockin', but I knocked three times; so. Did n't
say a word; only jest knocked three times--that a-way. Did n't hear no
answer--nothin' but the tickin' uv the tall clock; an' yet I knew that
Bill heered me an' that down in his heart he was sayin' to me to come
in. He never said a word, yet I knowed all the time Bill wuz sayin'
for me to come in.
I opened the door, keerful-like, an' slipped in. Did n't say nothin';
jest opened the door, softly-like, an' slipped in. There set Bill jist
as I knowed he was settin', lonesome-like, sad-like; his head hangin'
down; he never looked up at me; never said a word--knowed I wuz there
all the time, but never said a word an' never made a sign.
How changed Bill wuz--oh, Bill, how changed ye wuz! There wuz furrers
in yer face an' yer hair wuz white--as white as--as white as mine!
Looked small about the body, thin an' hump-shouldered.
Jest two ol' men, that's what we wuz; an' we had been boys together!