Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 891. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A STORY OF THE RUSSIAN FAMINE.
BY OCTAVE THANET.
The Editor of the ROUND TABLE has asked me to relate some incident of my
life which may be of interest to its readers. Will they permit me to
tell them that episode in my life which gives me, when I recall it, the
greatest pleasure?
It is the old story of the pebble and the ever-widening circle in the
water.
Do you remember how all through the autumn of 1893 there appeared in
corners of newspapers, in telegraphic columns, then in editorial
"briefs," sinister allusions to the total failure of the Russian crops
and the menace of a famine? Do you remember how the dreary paragraphs
expanded; how the menace became ghastly reality; how we grew to find,
every morning, as we sat down to our bountiful American breakfasts,
woful tales how men and women were dying of starvation fever, and little
children turned wailing away from the horrible bread of weeds and
refuse? I read as others read. And I read also of the titanic efforts of
the Russian government and the wonderful generosity of the Russian
people in that year of disaster. I experienced the momentary shudder of
pity and horror that such tales excite, and, like other people, I
thought "Somebody ought to do something"; and then pushed the hideous
picture into the background of my mind.
One night Mr. Arthur M. Judy, the pastor of the Unitarian Church in
Davenport, dined with us. The talk drifted to the famine in Russia. I
told how a friend who had passed through Russia in August described the
look of the ruined wheat-fields and the sadness already settling over
the villages.
"We ought to do something for those people," said he. "They came to our
rescue during the civil war; they have always been friendly with us; we
ought not to stand by idle now. We ought to do something, right here in
Iowa."
We all agreed that it would be a good thing, but there was no definite
plan proposed. Only later in the evening, as my mother, my sister, and I
sat together before the fire, we talked of those starving people until
it was uncomfortable. I found it hard to push the pictures of agony and
death and piteous self-sacrifice into the background of my mind.
You perceive that the pebble had been thrown into the water.
Sunday, not long afterwards, we were having a little family dinner
party, our own and my two brothers' families, and my elder brother's
wife spoke of the famine. She is of English-Irish descent, and much of
her life has been spent across the water. She has met many Russians, and
she surprised us all by the intensity of her realization of the horrors
of famine. Yet possibly it is not so strange. Early in the century her
ancestors mortgaged their estates to fight the great Irish famine.
"It is horrible!" cried she; "and we sit here, while they are dying,
eating and drinking. We talk of somebody doing something! Why don't _we_
do something?"
"That's right," said my younger brother, cheerfully turning on me.
"Sissy, why don't _you_ do something?"
"I will," I answered, meekly; "I will go down to the _Democrat_ office
and ask Mr. Tillinghast to do something!"
Then we all laughed; but presently we were discussing the best manner in
which to effect our purpose. The _Democrat_ is the leading journal of
our town, owned by Mr. D. N. Richardson, author of a delightful book of
travels which ought to be on every round table, and his brother, J. J.
Richardson, for many years the Iowa National Committeeman. Mr.
Richardson and Mr. Tillinghast were the editors, Mr. Richardson being
what one may call the consulting editor, and Mr. Tillinghast the active
editor. Mr. Calkins, the new city editor, I had occasion to know later.
I went to the _Democrat_. I stated our case.
I can see the editor now, his slender figure turning quickly in his
chair as he threw his arm over the back of it, his dark eyes kindling,
and his black brows meeting in a little frown of concentrated thought;
and I can hear his leisurely, distinct tones as he spoke:
"I like the idea. I like it very much. But--you know there are
difficulties. In the first place, we must discover whether the Russian
government will accept our offering. We don't want to be lacking in
courtesy any more than in generosity. In the second place, there are so
many prejudices and so many falsehoods circulating about Russia that we
want to select some channel of distribution which will be above
suspicion."
"George thinks that the Red Cross and Clara Barton would satisfy every
one."
"They would; and _she_ is in Washington, where she can consult the
Russian legation."
"And George says he will go with you any day this week to stir up
Governor Boies to issue a proclamation and name a committee."
Thus lightly we entered on a work that was to absorb most of our time,
our energies, and our hearts for the next three months.
The Governor was found already interested. His proclamation was issued
immediately. Like all the Governor's state papers, it was dignified and
to the point, but it contained in its brief lines a touch of pathos
which is not often seen in state documents. Eleven of the most prominent
citizens of the State were named as the Russian Famine Committee, the
chairman being the Hon. Hiram Wheeler, Republican candidate for Governor
in the campaign which had elected Mr. Boies. Mr. B. F. Tillinghast was
named as secretary, and the Auditor of the State as treasurer. And it
may be said here that upon the secretary and the treasurer fell the
burden and the heat of the work of organizing an immense undertaking.
Mr. Tillinghast, in especial, gave up almost his entire time, night and
day, the owners of the _Democrat_ loyally backing him up, and
contributing not only the columns of the paper, but generous gifts of
money and their own time. The first work was to organize enthusiasm--to
spread the circle wider and wider. "First we must get the committee red
hot, then they must get their committees red hot, and the press must
keep up the fire," said Mr. Tillinghast. The press all over the State
nobly responded, publishing anything bearing on the famine which the
Famine Committee would furnish. Mr. Tillinghast every day culled from
exchanges, American and foreign, from private letters and public
letters, what seemed best calculated to rouse the public feeling. It was
in itself an immense work. He, with his staff, was an entire literary
bureau; but this was only a fraction of his work. He and a few others of
us who were interested corresponded with hundreds of people, with the
officers of the Red Cross, with Colonel Murphy and Buchanan and other
corn experts (we had decided that our gift should be corn, and events
proved the wisdom of our decision), with people in our own country, with
the workers in Russia. Thousands of copies of the proclamation of the
Famine Committee were printed, and thousands more slips of extracts from
testimony from authentic sources regarding the sufferings of the
peasants and the heroic relief-work of their country-men were also made
ready. Almost the entire work of their selection and preparation was
done by Mr. Tillinghast. At the same time he was holding in his hand all
the reins of the different forces.
I remember that, accidentally, the "Horrors," as we used to call them,
were printed on colored paper--red, orange, and blue. To our surprise,
we found that the colors attracted so much attention that what began by
accident continued by design. One of our best sources of information was
the _Northwestern Miller_, which was advocating the sending of a cargo
of wheat flour by the millers of the country. The generous millers
raised the ship load, and Mr. Edgar, of the _Northwestern Miller_,
accompanied it to Europe. He was thanked in person, for the evidence of
friendship, by the Czarowitz, the present Czar.
Every Sunday night Mr. Tillinghast would come to my mother's house, the
telephone would summon my two brothers and their wives, and a council of
war would be held on the week's progress and the plans for the next
week.
It was immediately after the meeting of the Famine Committee that my own
mere active part in the work began. Mr. Tillinghast had reported the
plan of campaign. He added: "Yes, the prospect is good. I think we can
easily raise a train of corn. But I am more ambitious; I want to send a
ship-load; and I think to do it we need to--interest the women." The
women present said very little; but after he was gone, in the fashion
of women, we "talked it over."
And that was the pebble that is responsible for the Iowa Women's
Auxiliary to the Red Cross. First, I wrote to prominent women in society
and in philanthropy all over the State, proposing the plan of an
organization of women who should sign a pledge. The pledge is before me;
it binds the subscriber to
Obey her superior officers.
Inform herself so far as in her power regarding the famine.
Influence her friends in favor of the objects of the Auxiliary, so
far as in her lies.
Aid in any effort made by the Auxiliary to raise money for the
Russian Famine Committee, by public entertainments.
The badge was a red cross on black satin ribbon, with the letters I.W.A.
in gold above the cross. The officers generally decked the satin with
gold fringe, and pinned a knot of ribbon in the Russian colors above.
The admission fee was ten cents, which included the badge. Yet this sum
more than paid all our expenses, principally because every member among
the officers paid her own expenses. Never, perhaps, was a large
charitable undertaking run more cheaply. All the committees worked for
nothing, at their own charges; the railways donated passes, the
telegraph companies donated their wires for the work, the newspapers
opened their columns, several owners of theatres and public halls
offered them free for our entertainments in aid of the fund, the
underwriters made a present of their charges, the very laborers who
packed the cargo gave their labor. Two weeks sufficed to organize, to
have lists signed all over the State petitioning the Governor to name a
committee; and before three weeks had passed, the committee had met in
Des Moines. The chairman was Mrs. William Larrabee, wife of ex-Governor
Larrabee; and I took the position of secretary.
The members of the Central Committee were chosen as representing
Congressional districts, that being the basis of representation in the
Russian Famine Committee. They were Mrs. Francis Ketcham, Mrs. Charles
Ashmead Schaeffer, Mrs. Matthew Parrott, Mrs. John F. Duncombe, Mrs.
Ella Hamilton Durley, Mrs. Albert Swalm, Mrs. J. B. Harsh, Mrs. George
West, Mrs. J. T. Stoneman, Mrs. Julian Phelps. We considered the
officers of the Russian Famine Committee as our superior officers, and
all moneys were turned in to them.
Miss Barton advised with us, and it was through her personal efforts
that the ship that carried our corn was secured. The weeks that followed
I have not the space to describe.
The president and secretary travelled among the districts; each district
chairman travelled in her own district, organizing subcommittees and
reporting to the secretary, who reported to the chairman. We held
meetings in libraries and club-rooms and hotel parlors. There was always
the same result; the simple recital of the misery, which we grew daily
to feel more acutely the harder we worked to help it, was enough to stir
the generous Western heart. Workers rose up all about us. They, in turn,
inspired others. One old lady, enfeebled by rheumatism, a farmer's
widow, wrote me for information, and carried the red and yellow slips
which I sent her around among her neighbors, reading them, and
collecting money. She raised $17. Sometimes, she said, it was hard for
her to climb in and out of the wagon; but she thought of the poor
starving creatures, and that gave her strength.
Two Swedish servant-girls added almost a hundred members to the
Auxiliary by their own efforts. One of our most effective appeals was to
tell (quoting our Russian informants) that a man or woman could be fed
from then to the next harvest for the sum of $2.80. It seemed
incredible, but Tolstoi and several others were our informants, and our
Red Cross men later verified the statement. We used to say, "Will you
not ask your friends to join with you and save one Russian life?" A poor
seamstress came to one district chairman and offered her some money
($1.75), saying, "I can't save a grown-up Russian, but maybe this will
save some child."
We raised money by different devices. Charity balls were given, and
Russian receptions, and kind-hearted musicians sang. The opera of the
_Mikado_, given in Davenport, helped our fund by over $800. There were
other unions of the appeal to the sense of humanity and the appetite for
amusement, but in general we simply asked for money in an honest, direct
way, and it was given to us.
In the cities and towns we asked for money with which to buy corn; in
the country we asked for corn itself. Mrs. Duncombe and Mrs. Ketcham
sent out wagon solicitors, who drove from farm to farm. The Iowa farmers
are very generous, and the wagons were heaped long before the circuit
could be completed. The result of the united efforts of men and women
was the largest ship-load of corn that ever sailed from our shores.
It is not only the result of our labors which makes the memory of that
hard-working, anxious time precious; it is, most of all, the revelation
that came to me, day after day, of the noble qualities of mine own
people. I remember how, in one of the counties, a hail-storm had pelted
the corn-fields and laid waste the harvest. We were questioning whether,
at the same time that we were asking aid for others, we should ask for
our own sufferers, when one of the chairmen received a letter from
Adair, saying: "_We're_ all right; we don't want anything. What are you
thinking about? We've collected a car-load of corn for the Russians.
Where shall we send it?"
And I remember very tenderly how the committees of women worked. Their
tact, their enthusiasm, their unselfish loyalty, will always rise before
me as I think of that time. And their virtues of omission were as
shining as those of commission. We had our difficulties, our
disappointments; we were harassed and discouraged, and a few times
despairing; but in all that time, during which I had hundreds of letters
and scores of meetings and innumerable private consultations with my
comrades, I am not haunted by the humiliating spectre of even a single
squabble. Nor did any of the chairmen report such a thing out of her own
experience. Yet, for the credit of the sex, I would not wish to think
that one of the husbands was right when he said: "You've broken the
world's record. You haven't had a racket!"
But now is it not easy to understand why, of the experiences of my life,
this is the one that is the jewel of my memory? And it is the old story
of the pebble and the circle in the water.
* * * * *
A BAD PLACE TO BE BORN IN.
There are a great many advantages in being born an American citizen. One
can hope to become President of the United States and various other high
and mighty things; but, after all, the greatest privilege is in being
born among a people who are free from foolish superstitions. Suppose you
had been born on the Congo River, for instance. How would you like that
when you consider some of their beliefs? It is told by persons supposed
to be well informed that the people inhabiting the district round the
Congo River share with the Ashantees, of whom we have recently heard
such a lot, the belief that if their high priest, the Chitome, were to
die a natural death the whole world would follow suit at once, and would
dissolve into air, for it is, according to them, only held together by
his personal will.
Accordingly, when the pontiff falls ill, and the illness is serious
enough to make a fatal termination probable, a successor is nominated,
and he, so soon as he is consecrated, enters the high priest's hut and
clubs him or strangles him to death. A somewhat similar custom obtains
in Unyore when the King falls seriously ill, and seems likely to die,
for his wives to kill him. The same rule is followed if he gets beyond a
certain age, for an old Unyore prophecy states that the throne will pass
away from the family in the event of the King dying a natural death.
A DELFT PARTY.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
[Illustration]
"Look here! look here!" and mischievous Penelope rustled a handful of
bank-bills before her mother, and the next second raised them above her
head and waltzed around the room.
"What ails you, child, and where did you get that money?" was the ready
inquiry, while Mrs. Thayer's admiring eyes followed her daughter's
graceful, swift-moving figure.
All of a sudden Penelope's rosy face, flushed with exercise and radiant
with happiness, burst into a merry laugh--one of the laughs that ripple
all through the atmosphere, and prove so contagious that everybody
within hearing of it laughs also.
Then stopping just before her mother, and again rustling the crisp
bills, for they were bran-new, she this time teasingly said, "Guess."
"But I cannot."
"Well, then," and dragging a chair so as to be opposite both her mother
and Cousin Blanche--this cousin has been a young lady for over ten
years, and makes her home with them--Penelope sat herself down, and with
the tantalizing manner that she could assume on occasions, slowly
counted, "One--two--three--four--five," and so on, laying one
five-dollar bill over the other while doing so, until they numbered ten.
Then satisfactorily surveying the pile before her, she raised her eyes,
and looking full into the earnest faces of her listeners, exclaimed,
with a wave of her hand in the money direction, "All mine!"
"You tantalizing, tormenting--" and Penelope's mother, trying to look
severe, rose, and threw on the blazing log fire a paper which, until her
daughter's entrance, she had been reading, and then with a swift
backward turn of her head she concluded, "mischievous girl."
Mrs. Thayer was rarely known to have administered anything but caresses
on any of her children, much less to her only daughter and youngest
child. "Mother's pet," the boys called her, but people called her
everybody's pet, for from her youngest brother to her eldest, and she
had five of them, their first question was, "Where's Penelope?"
Therefore Mrs. Thayer was not at all surprised when her daughter finally
told her that the money was a present from Uncle Dan. Uncle Dan was Mrs.
Thayer's bachelor brother, and lived with them off and on, and Penelope
farther explained, while delight streamed from every feature of her
mobile face, "that uncle had given her the money to spend on a party";
and having told her story, she raised her gray-blue honest eyes to her
mother, and asked,
"I could give a party for fifty dollars, couldn't I?"
"Of course you can! the loveliest sort of a party, too," was the
assuring answer. Then, as that matter was arranged, Mrs. Thayer turned
towards Blanche, who was quietly watching the interview but saying not a
word. "Have you any scheme to suggest?" But before Blanche had an
opportunity to reply Mrs. Thayer interjected, suddenly rising to give
her dress a fresh smooth out, "Penelope, how would you like to give the
party on your birthday?"
"I'd love to, mother," and very rapidly her little hands were clasped
together while she added, "May I?"
"I don't see why not; your birthday is--let me count--just three weeks
hence;" and with the most satisfied air Mrs. Thayer exclaimed, "Plenty
of time. But run away now, dear, for we want to plan your party when
you're not around."
And after a slight demur, for Penelope was thirteen years old and
thought she should be taken into the consultation, she rose and gayly
tripped out of the room.
"Now, Blanche," and Mrs. Thayer wheeled about to face her.
"You amuse me. What should I know about children's entertainments?"
"You're the very one that does know. Haven't you been all over the world
nearly? Of course you know."
"Well, how do you think Penelope would enjoy a Delft party?"
Shaking her head slowly, Mrs. Thayer replied, "I never heard of one."
"Nor have I, and I am astonished that it has not been introduced long
ago. As New York was settled by the Dutch, a Delft party could partake
of the real Knickerbocker flavor--none of the sham kind;" and with this
last word Cousin Blanche rose and walked nearer to the fire, adding,
with a slight shiver, that she was cold.
Mrs. Thayer thereupon rang for the maid, who received orders to bring
more wood, and as the fire crackled and blazed, Cousin Blanche talked
steadily.
"Of course the word Delft suggests Holland, and we right away think of
the large windmills everywhere visible. Some of these are built of
stone, others of brick, and still others of wood. Many of them are
thatched. Now my idea would be for the boys--Penelope's brothers, I
mean--to form a tableau in which they would build windmills. The
windmills could be cut out of card-board and pasted together. They could
be painted to represent stone or brick. Ordinary straw could be used for
thatching, and two or more of the boys might be putting the straw on.
These windmills should be stood back of that large screen at the north
end of the parlor before the children arrive."
"Then you wouldn't use a curtain?"
"No; we could arrange all the tableaux back of the screen, and so save a
great deal of annoyance."
"How many tableaux do you think would be nice?"
"Three or four." And Cousin Blanche thoughtfully continued: "I would
show only those that are thoroughly indicative of our Holland Dutch
ancestors." And Blanche scrutinized Mrs. Thayer's face while she
concluded, "Entertainment is always better when it is instructive."
"But I'm afraid"--and Mrs. Thayer acted fearful while she
explained--"that the tableaux would be a terrible trouble."
"On the contrary, nothing could be easier;" and with a good-natured
smile rippling over her face, Blanche continued, "Why not let me help
you?"
"Help me? I expected you would. Why, Blanche!" and the forlorn tone of
Mrs. Thayer's voice decided matters.
"I am thinking"--and Cousin Blanche's face was very bright, showing that
her thought was satisfactory--"that it would be a good idea to show the
tulip craze. This tableau would require girls and boys. Penelope could
be one of the girls, and Fannie and Julia Mobray the others."
"They are quite getatable."
"That was my reason in selecting them. Living across the street as they
do, they could easily run over for rehearsals."
"I did not know that the Hollanders were interested in tulips
especially," Mrs. Thayer responded, slowly, and lifting her eyes so that
they met the astonished ones of Cousin Blanche.
"Why," and without waiting for an explanation Cousin Blanche continued,
"you've forgotten about it. The Hollanders spent immense sums of money
in ornamenting their gardens with tulips; every new variety of the
flower was sought for. They were produced in various shapes and
unexpected colors. Indeed, a new color meant a fortune."
"Oh!" and Mrs. Thayer seemed greatly surprised. "But how would you show
it?"
"I would group the children so that they looked pretty. They could wear
green clothes to represent stalk and leaves, and have large
colored-paper petals fastened to their waists, and with wire shaped and
bent upward they would look like veritable tulips. Then a few others
could, in a previous tableau, show the act of planting tulip bulbs and
watering some growing tulips."
[Illustration]
"Suppose that you cannot get the tulips?"
"I can get tulips of some sort," was the assured response. "If I cannot
buy natural ones, I can make paper ones."
Mrs. Thayer looked pleased, and then a pink flush suffused her face,
while she replied, "I cannot frighten you, can I?"
"Not this time. Indeed, no one can afford to quietly accept things when
arranging entertainments;" and Blanche rose and paced several times up
and down the room. While she walked she added: "As for the other
tableaux, one should certainly show a group of girls knitting and
crocheting, and others painting pottery, tiles, etc. And then there
should be a representation of storks and their nests."
"How would you get a stork?"
"Borrow one from a museum, if there is no other way. But I have friends
who have fine specimens of storks, and stork nests also."
"Well, but what about the rest of the party?" And with a swift glance at
her watch, Mrs. Thayer added, "I have an engagement."
"Delft games should be played. For example:
FIVE.
"Select a boy and hand him a knotted handkerchief. He must throw the
handkerchief at a player, and before he can count aloud five the person
to whom it is thrown must mention a round thing, such as an apple, a
globe. If that person fails, he must change places with the one who has
caught him, and throw the handkerchief at another. As no repetitions are
allowed, it will soon be difficult to find an object that is round.
BREAKFAST.
"Every player is seated. Turn to the person at your right, and ask,
'Will you come to breakfast?' To which the answer is, 'Yes.' When that
question and answer have gone around the room, the first one must ask,
'What would you like for breakfast?' Perhaps the reply would be, 'Milk';
and he then puts the question to his right-hand neighbor, who perhaps
would say, 'Oatmeal,' and so on, until no sensible answer can be made,
for no repetitions can occur in this game, also. As the different
players fail to respond they must stand.
ALPHABET.
"Give any letter of the alphabet--for example, S--to the company, also
some paper and pencils. In five minutes' time they should write the
names of three celebrated men, and also three sensible sentences, one
for each man's name, as Shakespeare was born in Stratford on the Avon.
Forfeits are required for failures.
"The games may be interspersed or followed by dances, and also by vocal
or instrumental music."
"As you describe it, Blanche, I'm afraid the children wouldn't get home
until morning."
"I am sure they will not want to. And, besides, it will be such a pretty
party."
"That is so; but you haven't suggested any decorations."
"No, nor told you what you are to wear."
"I to wear?" and Mrs. Thayer almost screamed the words.
"Why, the party wouldn't be anywhere without costumes. You must"--and
Blanche met Mrs. Thayer's face smilingly--"look over some Dutch
portraits or photographs and decide which you will copy. Besides, you
must wear a gown of Delft blue, as, indeed, I must also. And all the
girls must wear Delft-blue colored frocks, and fashion them as closely
as possible after the style of the young Dutch girls. Their hair should
be worn flowing, and tied by the same colored ribbon, or worn in braids
down their backs; and the boys must get the color in too some way; of
course they could all wear Delft scarfs. And all the decorations should
be of the same blue shade. That can readily be arranged by draperies and
crêpe paper. And don't forget to have the caterer serve all confections
and ices in form of dikes, windmills, ships, storks, etc. Indeed, we
must have everything as Delft as possible."
When Penelope heard the scheme she could scarcely wait for her birthday
night to come. But the days passed rapidly, after all, because everybody
was very busy, and the night of all nights arrived at last.
[Illustration]
And Uncle Dan, who did not enter the parlor until the games were in
progress, exclaimed in amazement, as he turned towards Penelope,
"Well, if it be I, as I suppose it be,
I have a little dog at home, and he knows me."
And drawing his hand across his forehead in a dazed sort of way, he
inquired: "Am I dreaming, child? I thought I was in America, but it
seems I am in Holland, or perhaps time has gone backward, and it's the
old Knickerbocker period."
A THANKSGIVING GAME.
BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.
"It's outrageous!" said the pater, banging his fist down on the
breakfast table in a way that made the mater, accustomed as she was to
his ways, jump in spite of herself. "So that's the reason the young
rascal's not going to be with us to-morrow until late in the evening.
Listen to this;" and the pater began indignantly to read an extract from
the morning paper:
"'An important change has been effected in the makeup of the Yale
eleven. Teddie Larned, '99, has recently made such a fine showing
at full-back that he will fill that position in the championship
game against Princeton on Thanksgiving day. His punting and
line-breaking are phenomenally good.'
"That's what I was afraid of when I sent him to college," continued the
pater, solemnly, as he folded up the paper. "Football's a rough, brutal
game, and those that play it become rough and brutal, when they don't
injure themselves for life, as most of 'em do. I wouldn't have one of
those young savages in my house. I'll just go up to that game early
to-morrow afternoon," he went on, "and bring Teddie home with me.
They'll have to get somebody else to fill his place in spite of his
being such a phenomenal--er--line-smasher--whatever that is."
"Don't be too hasty," advised the mater, in whom Teddie, knowing his
father's violent aversion to athletics, had confided. "This game means a
great deal to our boy."
"Nonsense!" snorted Mr. Larned, indignantly; "it's nothing but a silly
school-boy affair anyway. I'm astonished that grown men waste their time
encouraging such things by going."
Long before the elevated train had reached Harlem it was packed and
jammed to the doors with lusty college boys, pretty girls, and sedate
heads of families, among whom Mr. Larned saw with astonishment many men
of note. All were wearing college colors, all were filled with a
delightful, suppressed excitement. Involuntarily the pater began to feel
the contagion. But everybody was talking football, and their language
sounded strangely to his ears.
"They say that Larned's a regular find for Yale," remarked a
chrysanthemum-headed youth to his friend hanging to a strap beside him.
"He kicked a goal from the field last week, when he was playing on the
scrub, from the forty-five-yard line. You ought to see him buck a line!"
Teddie's name was on every one's lips, and the pater began, in spite of
himself, to feel proud of his son, and to have a sneaking desire to see
some of those accomplishments of his that other people seemed to know so
much about.
Fighting his way through the crush at the gate, Mr. Larned finally found
himself inside, albeit in a decidedly dishevelled condition. An official
with a long flowing badge directed him to the training-quarters where
the Yale team was reposing during the last hour before the game. At the
door the pater was confronted by Mike, the grizzled old trainer.
"Of course Mr. Larned's here," he responded, surprisedly, to the
former's inquiry, "but he can't see anybody just now."
"Tell him that his father wishes to speak with him at once," said the
pater, authoritatively.
The trainer's manner became more respectful. "I'm very sorry, Mr.
Larned," he said, firmly, "but the team can see no one before the game.
The coachers are giving them a last talk now."
"Do you mean to tell me," the pater demanded, hotly, "that I can't see
my own son?"
"Exactly, sir," replied the trainer, inexorably. "Just at present he's
the full-back on the Yale eleven, and nothing else goes. And now, Mr.
Larned, I'll write you out a pass to the grand stand, and then I must
run back to the boys. After the game you can see your son aplenty--if
there's anything left of him." And with this cheering suggestion, Mike
scribbled a few words on a card, which he handed to Mr. Larned, and
retired.
The latter stood speechless for a moment. That a power on the Street, a
man whose name was among the great ones of Manhattan, should be treated
thus cavalierly, and that by a hired trainer--
"Why, it's preposterous!" exclaimed the pater to himself; nor was his
ruffled self-esteem soothed when he read the scrawl on the card: "This
is Teddie Larned's father. He wants to see the game. Mike."
But then it proved an "open sesame," and the ushers, after reading the
magic words, received him with the most marked attention, passed him
along through the crowds of ordinary people who were not fathers to
famous full-backs, and finally seated him in a front box which was
specially reserved for the parents of the players--though Mr. Larned did
not know this.
Next to him was seated a tall, ruddy-faced man, wearing the slouch hat
which the old generation of Westerners still cling to. He was beaming
with jollity, and joined a deep bass to some of the college songs that
Yale voices were chanting all around him.
"Well, to-day's the day we watch the youngsters distinguish themselves,"
he remarked, cheerily, to Mr. Larned, during a lull in the cheering that
was surging up and down the grand stand.
But before the pater could rebuff this friendly overture, as in his
present state of mind he felt inclined to, a roar of cheers swept up and
down the field, and the speaker sprang to his feet, waving his slouch
hat frantically. Out on the brownish-green field trotted eleven
shock-headed youths clad in dirty, heavily padded mole-skins, cleated
shoes, and canvas jackets, frayed and torn, but each with the great
varsity "Y" on its breast. An oval brown ball was hurled and caught
with, what seemed to the pater's inexperienced eye, wonderful swiftness,
and then as the ball rolled along the ground each man took his turn, as
it came near, in sprawling down on it in a most comical manner. Suddenly
it was passed nearly thirty yards, straight as an arrow into the arms of
a short, chunky youngster, with an extremely dirty face, who seemed
carved out of a solid block. With almost a single movement--so deftly
was it done--the ball was caught and poised in both hands for the
tiniest fraction of a second. Then came a hollow thump as the dropped
oval was punted. Up, and up, and out in a tremendous parabola, almost
the length of the field it soared. "AA! AA!" howled the Yale tiers. "Get
on to that punt! What's the matter with Teddie Larned?"
The pater stared, at first incredulously, but sure enough that
marvellous kicker was his own son Teddie, though disguised by the grime,
the pads, and the tangled hair.
It must have been the excitement around him which made the pater stand
up and watch with all his eyes every sky-scraping punt that the
dirty-faced boy continued to make, and by a mere accident all at once he
found himself saying "AA!" as loudly as any one before he had been on
his feet a minute.
His companion was wild with excitement. "See that big chap?" he
exclaimed, pointing out a young giant whose face looked like some
monstrous mask, with its huge rubber nose-guard. "That's Bright, the
centre rush. Ain't he a corker?"
"Looks too fat," said the pater, critically.
"Too fat, eh?" replied the other, excitedly. "Well, you just watch him
play, and see if he's too fat. That little Larned's the one that's too
fat. He punts all right, but a full-back ought not to be so round."
"Not at all! Not at all!" hotly responded the pater, who, though he did
not know a full-back from a goal-post, was not going to sit by and hear
his only son maligned. "A _pull_-back should always be thickset!
They--er--_pull_ better when they're like that. And--that's my son sir!"
The Westerner choked until he was nearly black in the face. "Well,
shake, old man, and we'll call it square," he said, finally, when he had
recovered breath enough to speak. "Bright happens to be my son, and in
spite of their fat I think our two boys won't disgrace us this day--eh?"
And again it must have been the excitement of the game, for the
dignified and somewhat exclusive Mr. Larned found himself shaking hands
with a total stranger as if he had been a life-long friend. All his bad
temper had disappeared. He was aglow with excitement; the most
delightful little thrills ran up and down his back, while an
irresistible impulse to shout had taken possession of him.
"This is your first game, isn't it?" Mr. Bright questioned. But just
then came another punt, and the pater found it much easier to stand up
and yell "AA!" than to answer any such searching questions. Then all
further conversation was made impossible by a torrent of cheers from the
Princeton tiers, and eleven other men, with the same grimy,
weather-beaten costumes, and the same businesslike air of deadly
earnestness, spread across the field and went through similar
preliminaries. Only _their_ stockings were of a barber-pole pattern,
with alternate rings of orange and black instead of a uniform blue,
while a large orange "P" blazed on every breast in place of the Y.
And now there was no controlling the audience. Orange and black banners
were confronted by yards of Yale blue. Yellow chrysanthemums glared at
bunches of violets and bachelor's-buttons, while the wearers--men,
women, and children--sent out volleys of cheers that made the grand
stand shake. The pater and his newly found friend were on their feet
with the rest. Near by was a crowd of Yale "rooters," as Mr. Bright
graphically termed them, shouting a rhythmic cheer containing too many
x's and other bewildering Greek consonants for the pater, while he
invariably added an extra "Rah!" to the regulation cheer. But to his
satisfaction he found that not even the deep-voiced Bright could shout
"AA!" with more earnest emphasis and volume, and he fell back on that as
his strong point.
Suddenly there is silence, a warning whistle blows. Yale has the ball,
and the forwards group themselves in a curious zigzag formation,
awaiting the kick off.
The short and chunky Teddie takes a run, his foot swings and strikes the
ball with what seems hardly more than a gentle touch, but the oval is
spinning clear down to the other end of the field, followed by the
terrible rush of the whole Yale team. It is caught by a running
Princeton man, who, with a swerve of his body, avoids the spring of one
runner, hurls another aside with the "straight-arm," and comes tearing
down the field like a deer. A tremendous shout from the wearers of the
orange and black masses is bitten off with surprising abruptness. For
Teddie smashes straight through the interference, and with a
lightning-like dive, which there is no evading, tackles the runner just
about the knees and hurls him headlong. In a flash the lined-up elevens
are facing each other, and the fight is on.
"Too fat, eh? Just look at that!" chuckles Mr. Bright, slapping the
erstwhile dignified Mr. Larned ecstatically on the back, as Yale's
centre catches his opponent napping, hurls him aside, and downs a runner
in his tracks.
Back and forth surges the tide of battle. The elevens are almost evenly
matched, and though the ball has been dangerously close to either goal,
it has always been kicked or rushed back in time. The pater marvels at
Teddie. Where had his boy learned the daring, the coolness, and the
self-reliance that characterize him that day? Time after time the Yale
backs smash at the Princeton line and fail to make the necessary ground,
and the ball is close to the goal, with only the swing of Teddie's right
leg to ward off a touch-down. But the boy never falters. Unerringly he
catches the ball, and just at the right moment when the rush of the
opposing backs is almost upon him, the ball spins far out of danger, and
a long-drawn breath of relief comes from the Yale seats. And once when
Teddie dives into the line with the ball, and the great seething mass of
arms and legs untangles itself, there is one that fails to rise with the
rest. The little full-back lies very limp and still, and there is a cry
for water, while old Mike rushes from the side-lines with a great
blanket flapping in the breeze. The pater's face becomes all of a sudden
drawn and white, and he trembles so that the great Westerner drops his
arm across his shoulders.
"Steady, old man," he says, soothingly; "the boy's only had the wind
pounded out of him. He'll be up and playing in a second." And maybe the
two fathers don't join in the tremendous cheer that arises when Teddie
trots back to his place--a little unsteadily, to be sure--and the game
goes on.
"They're saving him," says Mr. Bright, after watching the play carefully
for some time. "He's only been sent against the line three times this
half, and now the other backs are doing most of the punting. They'll
send him in to save the game in the last ten minutes."
The ball is back almost in the middle of the field again, when suddenly
the warning whistle sounds shrilly, and the first half is over. A great
buzz goes up from thousands of seats as the spectators discuss the
details of the game, and, long before one expects them, the players are
trooping back. Hair all adrip from the hurried sponging that the rubbers
have given their grimy faces, bodies still atingle from the stinging
alcohol rub-downs, with the hoarse, earnest, words of the graduate
coachers still ringing in their ears, they line up for the bitter second
half. From the start the advantage lies with the orange and black. The
weight of their tremendous rush-line begins to make itself felt. Back
and forth goes the ball, but--significant fact to the knowing ones--it
stays constantly in Yale's territory. For the first time during the
afternoon there is a dead silence, and the thud of the players' bodies
as a back strikes the rush-line or tries to smash through the
interference can be heard, and their sobbing breathing as again and
again the confused heap untangles itself. The shrill voices of the
quarter-backs as they call out the signal for the next play punctuates
every struggle, and now and then one or the other of the Captains claps
his muddy hands sharply together with a "Play hard, boys! Hit it up!
_Now_ show your sand!"
Above the struggling, changing mass hangs a thin white steam--truly a
battle-mist. Finally, towards the end of the half, by a series of short,
hard rushes, Princeton is on Yale's 20-yard line. But here the wearers
of the blue stand like a stone wall, and, after three vain attempts, the
ball goes to Yale on downs. Instantly it is passed back for a punt, and
then--no one knows how it happened, perhaps the Yale guard was napping,
perhaps the tackle was to blame--straight through the line, between
tackle and guard, smashes the great right guard of Princeton and blocks
the kick. The ball bounds from his broad chest clear across the line. In
a flash one of the Princeton ends has followed, fallen on it, and the
score is 4-0 in favor of Princeton. A crumb of comfort is it, but only a
crumb to the Yale adherents, who sit gloomy and despondent amid a
roaring storm of Princeton cheers, that no goal is kicked.
"Only seven minutes left," exclaims Mr. Bright, despairingly, "and that's
not time to do anything against a rush-line like that. But the boys'll
die a-trying, anyhow!"
Grim and unyielding the Yale men line up for these last stern minutes.
They have failed. No matter the reason, the audience may call it a
fluke, a piece of hard luck; but up on the Yale campus it is results
that count--not excuses. In their hands is the honor of the college, and
but seven minutes remain to wipe off the stain of defeat before thrice
ten thousand people. Like a flash the eleven lines up. The battle opens
with a last-resort flying-wedge play, too risky to try except at such a
desperate time when every chance must be taken. When it is over the blue
line is twelve yards nearer the Princeton goal; but two of the precious
minutes are gone.
"Five, seven, twenty-nine!" shouts the quarter-back, hoarsely, and the
ball goes back to Teddie, and smash he goes into the line. Like a flash
the tangled mass dissolves, with the ball six yards nearer the goal.
Nothing is harder to stand than the dumb furious rush of a despairing
eleven, nerved by the sting of defeat, and seeing a chance to retrieve
itself. No end plays now, but straight through the centre they go, and
even Princeton's mighty rush-line wavers. Mr. Bright's prediction as to
Teddie's having been held in reserve proves a true one. Back into his
hands goes the ball for nearly every play, and gallantly that day does
he sustain his reputation as the best line-breaker that has ever worn a
Y. Sometimes it is a "turtle-back," or one of the huge guards makes a
hole for him at the centre, or again, in a tandem play, Teddie follows
the smashing rush of the heaviest back. But, whatever the play,
crashing through or even leaping over the opposing line, as they crouch
for his approach, pushing, boring, squirming, with the weight of half a
dozen men crushing the breath out of him, Teddie always gains ground.
Sometimes the gains are small, to be sure, but always enough for Yale to
keep the ball. Once there is a line-up by the side-line close to where
the two fathers sit, and Mr. Larned looks down into Teddie's face scarce
ten yards away. It shows very white now underneath the grime and sweat,
while the blood, oozing from a cut in the forehead, clots blackly in
little streams down the side of his face. But, strangely enough, the
pater forgets to characterize the whole thing as brutal. In fact, his
teeth are clinched as grimly as his son's as he leans far forward to see
every move of the game, and his heart goes out to those "young savages"
who are making such a dogged up-hill fight of it.
And now the ball is on the twenty-yard line, diagonally from the goal.
"Thirty seconds to play," shouts the umpire, poring over his stop-watch.
"Thirty seconds to make one last attempt for Yale, and every man on the
eleven nerves himself to hold against the Princeton rush-line as against
death himself. As the quarter-back cries the signal, the right and left
half-backs, from mere force of habit, crouch ostentatiously, as if
prepared for a run round the end. But the feint is unnecessary. Every
man on the Princeton eleven, every coacher on the side-lines, every
football-player on the crowded grand stands, knows that a goal from the
field is Yale's only chance, knows that on Teddie's coolness depends the
fate of the day. Back goes the ball on a long, low, accurate pass from
the wiry little quarter-back. And before it has reached Teddie's
outstretched hands the crash comes, and against the sternly waiting line
comes the full force of the Princeton rushers bent on breaking through
and blocking the kick.
"Hold 'em, Yale!" gasps the Captain from his place at tackle, as he
braces against the hard-pressed right-guard. And for a second Yale
holds. Then the line wavers, and straight for Teddie, from as many
different points, spring three men. But that second had been enough.
Deftly and slowly, as if in practice, the ball is poised and dropped.
Struck on the rebound by Teddie's foot, it spins up and out just above
the outstretched fingers of the Princeton rushers, who leap high in the
air to intercept it. The goal is a difficult, diagonal one to make, and
every player forgets to breathe as the ball sails slowly on, until it
just clears the cross-bar, making the score stand 5-4 in favor of Yale;
the game has been won in the last quarter of a minute.
[Illustration: THE GAME HAS BEEN WON IN THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE.]
In such an indescribable turmoil as the one that followed, with every
Yale sympathizer swarming out on the field to embrace the eleven which
had so gallantly snatched a victory from the jaws of defeat, it was
impossible to chronicle events with perfect accuracy; but it has been
reported, on reliable authority, that shortly after the goal was kicked,
a hatless and much dishevelled individual, bearing some faint
resemblance to the dignified Mr. Larned, the well-known financier of New
York, was seen enthusiastically hugging a muddy Yale player, supposed to
be the full-back, pouring forth divers fragments of cheers the while,
and at intervals embracing a tall man in a slouch hat who was performing
a vigorous war-dance with variations. Both of these parties mentioned
were also said to have been members of the group that carried the
aforesaid full-back around the field on their shoulders in triumph.
Undoubtedly the facts in the case have been much exaggerated, but it is
certainly true that Mrs. Larned, to her unbounded amazement, received
the following telegram from her husband late that evening: