“If you like,” said Jansen, “we’ll go down here and take a look at the

lower drift. They’ve just struck the ledge about forty feet below.”

“Are the ladders as good as those above, Mr. Jansen?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes, sir; they’re all good; some of the lower ones may be busted a

little with the blastin’; but there’s two men down there. Guess they got

down somehow.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Jansen, I’m not curious about the lower

drift. You can show me some specimens of the ore, and that will be quite

satisfactory.”

“Yes, sir, but I’d like you to see the vein where the drift strikes it.

It’s really beautiful.”

A beautiful sight down in this region was worth looking at, so I

succumbed. Jansen lifted up the planks, told the men to cover us well

up as soon as we had disappeared, in order to keep the ore from the

upper shaft from tumbling on our heads, and then, diving down, politely

requested me to follow. I had barely descended a few steps when the

massive rafters and planks were thrown across overhead and thus all exit

to the outer world was cut off. There was an oppressive sensation in

being so completely isolated from the outside world—barred out, as it

were, from the surface of the earth. Yet how many there are who spend

half their lives in such a place for a pittance of wages which they

squander in dissipation! Surely it is worth four dollars a day to work in

these dismal holes.

Bracing my nerves with such thoughts as these, I scrambled down the

rickety ladders till the last rung seemed to have disappeared. I probed

about with a spare leg for a landing place, but could touch neither top,

bottom nor sides. The ladder was apparently suspended in space like

Mohammed’s coffin.

“Come on, sir,” cried the voice of Jansen far down below. “They’re going

to blast.”

Pleasant, if not picturesque, to be hanging by two arms and one leg to

a ladder, squirming about in search of a foothold, while somebody below

was setting fire to a fuse with the design, no doubt, of blowing up the

entire premises!

“Mr. Jansen,” said I, in a voice of unnatural calmness, while the big

drops of agony stood on my brow, “there’s no difficulty in saying ‘Come

on, sir!’ but to do it without an inch more of ladder or anything else

that I can see, requires both time and reflection. How far do you expect

me to drop?”

“Oh, don’t you let go, sir. Just hang on to that rope at the bottom of

the ladder, and let yourself down.”

I hung on as directed and let myself down. It was plain sailing enough

to one who knew the chart. The ladder, it seemed, had been broken by

a blast of rocks; and now there was to be another blast. We retired

into a convenient hole about ten or a dozen paces from the deposit of

Hazard’s powder. The blast went off with a dead reverberation, causing a

concussion in the air that affected one like a shock of galvanism; and

then there was a diabolical smell of brimstone. Jansen was charmed at

the result. A mass of the ledge was burst clean open. He grasped up the

blackened fragments of quartz, licked them with his tongue, held them up

to the candle, and constantly exclaimed: “There, sir, there! Isn’t it

beautiful? Did you ever see anything like it?—pure gold, almost—here it

is!—don’t you see it?”

I suppose I saw it; at all events I put some specimens in my pocket, and

saw them afterward out in the pure sunlight, where the smoke was not so

dense; and it is due to the great cause of truth to say that gold was

there in glittering specks, as if shaken over it from a pepper-box.

Having concluded my examination of the mine, I took the bucket as a

medium of exit, being fully satisfied with the ladders. About half-way

up the shaft the iron swing or handle to which the rope was attached

caught in one of the ladders. The rope stretched. I felt it harden and

grow thin in my hands. The bucket began to tip over. It was pitch dark

all around. Jansen was far below, coming up the ladder. Something seemed

to be creaking, cracking, or giving way. I felt the rough, heavy sides of

the bucket press against my legs. A terrible apprehension seized me that

the gear was tangled and would presently snap. In the pitchy darkness and

the confusion of the moment I could not conjecture what was the matter.

I darted out my hands, seized the ladder and, jerking myself high out

of the bucket, clambered up with the agility of an acrobat. Relieved of

my weight, the iron catch came loose, and up came the bucket banging

and thundering after me with a velocity that was perfectly frightful.

Never was there such a subterranean chase, I verily believe, since

the beginning of the world. To stop a single moment would be certain

destruction, for the bucket was large, heavy and massively bound with

iron, and the space in the shaft was not sufficient to admit of its

passing without crushing me flat against the ladder.

But such a chase could not last long. I felt my strength give way at

every lift. The distance was too great to admit the hope of escape by

climbing. My only chance was to seize the rope above the bucket and hang

on to it. This I did. It was a lucky thought—one of those thoughts that

sometimes flash upon the mind like inspiration in a moment of peril.

A few more revolutions of the “whim” brought me so near the surface

that I could see the bucket only a few yards below my feet. The noise

of the rope over the block above reminded me that I had better slip

down a little to save my hands, which I did in good style, and was

presently landed on the upper crust of the earth, all safe and sound,

though somewhat dazzled by the light and rattled by my subterranean

experiences.—From “Adventures in the Apache Country,” published by

_Harper & Brothers_, New York, and used by their kind permission.

HOW CY HOPKINS GOT A SEAT

BY MARSHALL P. WILDER

In one of the country stores where they sell everything from a silk dress

and a tub of butter to a hot drink and a cold meal, a lot of farmers were

sitting around the stove one cold day, when in came Farmer Evans, who was

greeted with:

“How d’do, Ezry?”

“How d’do boys?” After awhile he continued: “Wa-all, I’ve killed my hog.”

“That so? How much did he weigh?”

Farmer Evans stroked his chin whiskers meditatively and replied: “Wa-all,

guess.”

“’Bout three hundred,” said one farmer.

“No.”

“Two seventy-five,” ventured another.

“No.”

“I guess about three twenty-five,” said a third.

“No.”

Then all together demanded: “Well, how much did he weigh?”

“Dunno. Hain’t weighed him yet.”

Other men kept dropping in and hugging the stove, for the day was cold

and snowy outside. In came Cy Hopkins, wrapped in a big overcoat, yet

almost frozen to death; but there wasn’t room enough around that stove to

warm his little finger.

But he didn’t get mad about it; he just said to Bill Stebbins who kept

the stove: “Bill, got any raw oysters?”

“Yes, Cy.”

“Well, just open a dozen and feed ’em to my hoss.”

Well, Stebbins never was scared by an order from a man whose credit was

good as Cy’s was, so he opened the oysters and took them out, an’ the

whole crowd followed to see a horse eat oysters. Then Cy picked out the

best seat near the stove and dropped into it as if he had come to stay,

as he had.

Pretty soon the crowd came back, and the storekeeper said: “Why, Cy, your

hoss won’t eat them oysters.”

“Won’t he? Well, then, bring ’em here an’ I’ll eat ’em myself.”—From “The

Sunny Side of the Street.” Published and copyrighted by _Funk & Wagnalls

Co._, and used by their kind permission and that of the author.

AN OVERWORKED RECITER

Once there was a little boy whose name was Robert Reece,

And every Friday afternoon he had to say a piece,

So many poems thus he learned that soon he had a store

Of recitations in his head, and still kept learning more.

And now this is what happened: He was called upon one week,

And totally forgot the piece he was about to speak!

His brain he cudgeled. Not a word remained within his head,

And he spoke at random, and this is what he said:

“My beautiful, my beautiful, who standest proudly by.

It was the schooner Hesperus—the breaking waves dashed high!

Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome?

Under the spreading chestnut tree there is no place like home!

When Freedom from her mountain height cried, Twinkle, little star;

Shoot if you must this old gray head, King Henry of Navarre!

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue castled crag of Drachenfels;

My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills, ring out, wild bells!

If you’re waking call me early, To be or not to be!

The curfew must not ring to-night! Oh, woodman, spare that tree!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on! And let who will be clever,

The boy stood on the burning deck, but I go on forever!”

His elocution was superb, his voice and gesture fine;

His schoolmates all applauded as he finished the last line.

“I see it doesn’t matter,” Robert thought, “What words I say,

So long as I declaim with oratorical display!”

—_London Tid-Bits._

SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

Strangers visiting the beautiful city of Burlington have not failed to

notice that one of the handsomest young men they meet is very bald, and

they fall into the usual error of attributing this premature baldness to

dissipation. But such is not the case. This young man, one of the most

exemplary Bible-class scholars in the city, went to a Baptist sociable

out on West Hill one night about two years ago. He escorted three

charming girls, with angelic countenances and human appetites, out to the

refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, and then found he had

left his pocketbook at home, and a deaf man that he had never seen before

at the cashier’s desk. The young man, with his face aflame, bent down and

said softly,

“I am ashamed to say I have no change with—”

“Hey?” shouted the cashier.

“I regret to say,” the young man repeated on a little louder key, “that I

have unfortunately come away without any change to—”

“Change two?” chirped the old man. “Oh, yes, I can change five if you

want it.”

“No,” the young man explained in a terrible, penetrating whisper, for

half-a-dozen people were crowding up behind him, impatient to pay their

bills and get away, “I don’t want any change, because—”

“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried, gleefully. “’Bleeged to

ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Tain’t often we get such generous donations. Pass

over your bill.”

“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have no funds—”

“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growing tired of the

conversation and noticing the long line of people waiting with money in

their hands, “but I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Settle and

move on.”

“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have no money—”

“Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’t care when you go; you

must pay and let these other people come up.”

“I have no money!” the mortified young man shouted, ready to sink into

the earth, while the people all around him, and especially the three

girls he had treated, were giggling and chuckling audibly.

“Owe money?” the cashier said, “of course you do; $2.75.”

“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning his pocket inside out

and yelling his poverty to the heavens, he finally made the deaf man

understand. And then he had to shriek his full name three times, while

his ears fairly rang with the half-stifled laughter that was breaking

out all around him; and he had to scream out where he worked, and roar

when he would pay, and he couldn’t get the deaf man to understand him

until some of the church members came up to see what the uproar was, and

recognizing their young friend, made it all right with the cashier. And

the young man went out into the night and clubbed himself, and shred his

locks away until he was bald as an egg.

SODDING AS A FINE ART

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

One day, early in the spring, Mr. Blosberg, who lives out on Ninth

Street, made up his mind that he would sod his front yard himself, and

when he had formed this public-spirited resolution, he proceeded to put

it into immediate execution. He cut his sod, in righteous and independent

and liberty-loving disregard of the ridiculous city ordinance in relation

thereto, from the patches of verdure that the cows had permitted to

obtain a temporary growth along the side of the street, and proceeded to

beautify his front yard therewith. Just as he had laid the first sod, Mr.

Thwackery, his next door neighbor, passed by.

“Good land, Blosberg,” he shouted, “you’ll never be able to make anything

of such a sod as that. Why, it’s three inches too thick. That sod will

cake up and dry like a brick. You want to shave at least two inches and a

half off the bottom of it, so the roots of the grass will grow into the

ground and unite the sod with the earth. That sod is thick enough for a

corner stone.”

So Mr. Blosberg took the spade and shaved the sod down until it was thin

and about as pliable as a buckwheat cake, and Mr. Thwackery pronounced

it all right and sure to grow, and passed on. Just as Mr. Blosberg

got it laid down the second time, old Mr. Templeton, who lived on the

next block, came along and leaned on the fence, intently observing the

sodder’s movements.

“Well, now, Blosberg,” he said at length, “I did think you had better

sense than that. Don’t you know a sod will never grow on that hard

ground? You must spade it all up first, and break the dirt up fine and

soft to the depth of at least four inches, or the grass can never take

root in it. Don’t waste your time and sod by putting grass on top of such

a baked brick-floor as that.”

And Mr. Blosberg laid aside the sod and took up the spade and labored

under Mr. Templeton’s directions until the ground was all properly

prepared for the sod, and then Mr. Templeton, telling him that sod

couldn’t die on that ground now if he tried to kill it, went his way

and Mr. Blosberg picked up that precious sod a third time, and prepared

to put it in its place. Before he had fairly poised it over the spot,

however, his hands were arrested by a terrific shout, and looking up he

saw Major Bladgers shaking his cane at him over the fence.

“Blosberg, you insufferable donkey,” roared the Major, “don’t you know

that you’ll lose every blade of grass you can carry if you put your sod

on that dry ground? There you’ve gone and cut it so thin that all the

roots of the grass are cut and bleeding, and you must soak that ground

with water until it is a perfect pulp, so that the roots will sink right

into it, and draw nutrition from the moist earth. Wet her down, Blosberg,

if you want to see your labor result in anything.”

So Mr. Blosberg put the sod aside again, and went and pumped water and

carried it around in buckets until his back ached like a soft corn,

and when he had finally transformed the front yard into a morass, the

major was satisfied, and assuring Mr. Blosberg that his sod would grow

beautifully now, even if he laid it on upside down, marched away, and

Mr. Blosberg made a fourth effort to put the first sod in its place. He

got it down and was going back after another, when old Mrs. Tweedlebug

checked him in his wild career.

“Lawk, Mr. Blosberg, ye mustn’t go off an’ leave that sod lying that way.

You must take the spade and beat it down hard, till it is all flat and

level, and close to the ground everywhere. You must pound it hard, or the

weeds will all start up under it and crowd out the grass.”

Mr. Blosberg went back, and stooping over the sod hit it a resounding

thwack with his spade that shot great gouts and splotches of mud all

over the parlor windows and half way to the top of the house, and some of

it came flying into his face and on his clothes, while a miscellaneous

shower made it dangerous even for his adviser, who, with a feeble shriek

of disapprobation, went hastily away, digging raw mud out of her ears.

Mr. Blosberg didn’t know how long to keep on pounding, and he didn’t see

Mrs. Tweedlebug go away, so he stood with his spade poised in the air

and his eyes shut tight, waiting for instructions. And as he waited he

was surprised to hear a new voice accost him. It was the voice of Mr.

Thistlepod, the old agriculturist, of whom Mr. Blosberg bought his apples

and butter.

“Hello, Mr. Blosberg!” he shouted, in tones which indicated that he

either believed Mr. Blosberg to be stone deaf or two thousand miles away.

Mr. Blosberg winked violently to get the soil out of his eyes, and turned

in the direction of the noise to say, “Good evening.”

“Soddin’, hey?” asked Mr. Thistlepod.

“Trying to, sir,” replied Mr. Blosberg, rather cautiously.

“’Spect it will grow, hey?”

Mr. Blosberg, having learned by very recent experience how liable his

plans were to be overthrown, was still non-committal, and replied that

“he hoped so.”

“Wal, if ye hope so, ye mustn’t go to poundin’ yer sod to pieces with

that spade. Ye don’t want to ram it down so dad binged tight and hard

there can’t no air git at the roots. Ye must shake that sod up a little,

so as to loosen it, and then jest press it down with yer foot ontil it

jest teches the ground nicely all around. Sod’s too thin, anyhow.”

So Mr. Blosberg thrust his hands into the nasty mud under his darling,

much abused sod, and spread his fingers wide apart to keep it from

breaking to pieces as he raised it, and finally got it loosened up and

pressed down to Mr. Thistlepod’s satisfaction, who then told him he

didn’t believe he could make that sod grow anyway, and drove away. Then

Mr. Blosberg stepped back to look at that sod, feeling confident that he

had got through with it, when young Mr. Simpson came along.

“Hello, Blos, old boy; watchu doin’?”

Mr. Blosberg timorously answered that he was sodding a little. Then Mr.

Simpson pressed his lips very tightly together to repress a smile, and

let his cheeks swell and bulge out to the size of toy balloons with

suppressed merriment, and finally burst into a snort of derisive laughter

that made the windows rattle in the houses on the other side of the

street, and he went on, leaving Mr. Blosberg somewhat nettled and a

little discouraged. He stood, with his fingers spread wide apart, holding

his arms out like wings, and wondering whether he had better go get

another sod or go wash his hands, when a policeman came by, and paused.

“Soddin’?” he asked, sententiously.

“Yes, sir, a little,” replied Mr. Blosberg, respectfully.

“Where’d you get your sod?” inquired the representative of public order.

Mr. Blosberg dolefully indicated the little bare parallelogram in the

scanty patch of verdure as his base of supplies.

“You’re the man I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied public order. “You come

along with me.”

And Mr. Blosberg went along, and the Police Judge fined him $11.95, and

when Mr. Blosberg got home he found that a cow had got into his yard

during his absence and stepped on that precious sod five times, and put

her foot clear through it every time, so that it looked like a patch of

moss rolled up in a wad, more than a sod. And then Mr. Blosberg fell on

his knees and raised his hands to heaven, and registered a vow that he

would never plant another sod if this whole fertile world turned into a

Sahara for want of his aid.

THE MISFORTUNES OF LITTLE IKE TEMPLIN

In the midst of his supper one day it occurred to little Ike to resort to

the well for a drink of water. In time his mammy grew tired of stopping

her work whenever he grew thirsty to hand him down a gourd from the pail

which rested on the shelf beyond his reach. Finally she said to him:

“Boy, what ails you anyhow? G’long out doors an’ try to be some use to

somebody, stid of eatin’ up an’ drinkin’ up ev’yt’ing Mis’s got on her

plantash’n.”

Little Ike, thus driven out, stood for a moment by the door and looked at

the well, which was a few rods distant. But he turned his back upon it

instantly, as if it were too painful to be thus reminded of the source

of his most recent disappointment, and began walking in the opposite

direction. When he had reached a spot on the line with the end of the

kitchen, he filed to the left and again to the left when he had reached

the rear side; and pursuing this line until he had gone some distance

beyond the well, turned again and came to the latter. Stepping upon a

hewn log which lay there to enable young drawers of water to manage

the bucket, he was pleased to find this utensil as it was resting upon

the ledge, half full of water. Conscious that the time was short, he

clambered up to the edge, got upon all fours, grabbed with one hand the

rim of the bucket, and with the other hand the well-rope, and, first

taking an anxious glance toward the kitchen and a fond one toward the

contents of the bucket, plunged in his head. He had hardly taken a few

sips when the call of his mother at its accustomed pitch sounded from the

kitchen.

And here I find myself under the painful necessity of recording a most

terrible scene. I suppose it will never be known precisely how it

happened, although no one, as well as I remember, ever suspected little

Ike of a deliberate intention to commit the awful crime of suicide. It

may have been that he had not known the use of his legs long enough for

the present extreme need, and that his knees may have given a tilt to the

bucket. At all events down they went together to the bottom, a distance

of thirty feet.

The mother, who had seen him at the moment when the descent began, ran,

half shrieking to the well, where she was joined by Mrs. Templin a moment

after.

“Oh, Mis’s, Mis’s, my po’ ophing chile have fell in de well and broke his

naik, and drown hese’f on top o’ that, an’ he my precious baby—an’ de

las’ one I got!”

Mrs. Templin said: “I’m sorry for you, Judy. But maybe he has been

mercifully saved from drowning. Lean over and look down as I turn the

windlass.”

After a few turns, she knew by the feeling that the bucket had risen to

the surface of the water, which was some four feet deep.

“Now call him,” she said.

“Li’ll Iky! Li’ll Iky!” shouted Judy.

“Ma-a-a-a-me!” came a sharp, plaintive answer from the great deep.

“Is you down dar, precious?”

“Eth, e-e-eth, ’m.”

“Well, well, is you drownded?”

“No—no—no, ’m!”

“Well, well! Is you done gone all to pieces?”

“No—n-n-no, ’m!”

“Is anything de matter wid mammy’s precious boy baby?”

“I k-k-k-co-co-o-ld!”

“Well, well, where is you now?”

“In—in de—b-b-bucket!”

Mrs. Templin then directed the mother to urge the child to hold fast to

the rope while she herself would turn the windlass.

“Dar now, you heah dat? Mis’s say she wan’ my nice li’ll darky to ketch

tight hold to der rope—tight as a tick; an’ she say she gwine draw him

up with her own blessed hands. Mis’s say she can’t ’ford to lose likely

li’ll fellow like my li’ll Ike, dat she can’t. Ye heah, mammy’s precious

suga’ lump?”

“E-e-e-e-th, ’m!”

The winding began, and the mother, being urged to encourage Ike as much

as possible during the ascent, did as well as she could by such cheering

remarks as these:

“Jes’ look at dat! Mis’s givin’ her li’ll niggah such a nice ride! En

Mis’s done tole mammy tah kill six chickens, an’ fry one o’m an’ brile

one o’m an’ make pie out of de rest, an’ all for li’ll Iky’s dinner; an’

she say she gwine make daddy barb’cue two pigs dis very evenin’, and

nobody ain’t to tech a mou’f’l on’m cep’n li’ll Iky if he’ll holt on tah

de well-rope. An’ she say, Mis’s do, she jes’ know her great big li’ll

Ike ain’t gwine to let dat rope loose an’ not get all dem goodies!”

It is possible that in so brief a time never was promised a greater

number of luxuries to a child born to loftiest estate. Chickens,

ducks—indeed the whole poultry yard was more than exhausted; every pig

on the plantation was done to a turn. During the ascent little Ike was

informed that eatables of every description would be at his disposal

forever. The time does not suffice to tell of other rewards promised

in the name of the munificent mistress, in the way of cakes, pies,

syllabubs, gold and silver and costly apparel. All this while, Mrs.

Templin, without uttering a word, turned the windlass, slowly, steadily.

When the bucket with its contents reached the top, and was safely lodged

upon the ledge, the mother seized her precious darling, his teeth

chattering the while with chill, and dragging him fiercely forth, said in

wrathful tones:

“A cold is yah? Well, ef I be bressed wid strength an’ ef dey is peachy

trees ’nough in de orchard, an’ de fence corners, I’ll wa’m yah. You dat

has sceert me intah fits, an’ made me tell all dem lies—dem on Mis’s—dat

I jes’ knows I never ken git fahgivin’ fo’ ’em.” And, still holding him,

she began striding toward the kitchen door.

“Judy!” called her mistress sternly, “Judy, put down that child this

minute! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Instead of being thankful that

he wasn’t killed, here you stand and are so angry with him that you look

as though you wished to kill him yourself. Now take him into your house

and put some dry clothes on him; then send him to me in the house, where

I will have some coffee ready for him. And mind you, Judy, if you lay

your hands on that child in anger, that won’t be the last of it. Do for

goodness’ sake try to learn some reason about your children.”

Judy led him away sullenly, and in spite of her mistress’s warning,

muttered direful threatenings, louder and louder, as she approached,

ending thus, as, having clothed him, she dispatched him to the big house:

“Nevah yah min’, sah; wait till Sunday come, when Mis’s go tah meetin’,

an’ you’ll see! An’, boy, ef yah skeers me dat way ag’in, I’ll put yah

whar yah won’t wan’ no mo’ watah an’ no mo’ nothin’. The idee! people all

talkin’ ’bout my chile gittin’ drowned same as puppies an’ kittens! Ought

to be ’shamed o’ yourself! I is. I jes’ ’spises to look at yah! G’long

out my sight!”

Ten minutes afterwards, while little Ike was in the big house,

luxuriating in coffee, biscuit and fried chicken, she was singing in

cheerful voice one of her favorite hymns:

Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord;

Nobody knows the trouble I see;

Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord;

Nobody knows like Jesus.

THE RETURN OF THE HOE

“Goliath Johnsing, why you so late? Supper been a sp’ilin’ on de stove

dis half hour,” and Aunt Lucy faced her liege lord with stern dignity.

“Old Daddy Moses an’ me been a havin’ it out.”

“Havin’ what out? You ain’t been an’ had a fuss wid Mr. Benson, ’Liah

Johnsing?”

“Yes, I have. Ole Skincher. Here I have been a hoein’ hard in the fiel’

all day, and he mean enough to dock my wages ten cents ’cause I warn’t

back at noon jest at de minnit. I warn’t late more’n half an hour or

three-quarters of an hour. But I give him piece of my mind.”

“I s’pose he don’ want to pay for work he don’ git.”

“Don’ git? Why, thar was Sam Stevens an’ Bill Jenkins; they talk more’n

half de time, an’ rested on they handles more’n t’other half, an’ did he

dock them any? Not he. He got spite ’gin me, I know dat.”

“Whar’d you git dat new hoe?” queried Aunt Lucy, as ’Liah hung that

implement up in the woodshed.

“Neber you mind. Women always want to stick their nose into ebbert’ing.”

“An’ what you done wid your ole hoe you took away this noon? You didn’t

trade that off for a new one?”

“Yes, I did, ’f ye will know.”

“’Liah Johnsing,” blurted out Aunt Lucy, as a sudden suspicion flamed

in her eyes, “dat ain’t one of Moses Benson’s hoes? You ain’t gone and

changed off yo’ ole hoe for one his’n, I hope? You wouldn’t do dat, if he

is a skincher, an’ you a member ob de church, ’Liah Johnsing?”

“Mis’ Johnsing, you jes’ ten’ to yo’ own bus’ness. Don’ you let me hear

not one mo’ word ’bout dat hoe.”

Suddenly, as bedtime drew near, ’Liah rose and went into the house,

saying as he went:

“Got to go down to de sto’, Lucy. I forgot I got to mow Dawkinses fiel’

to-morrow, an’ my whetstun’s clear down to de bone, an’ I’ve got to start

off to-morrow ’fore sto’s open.”

’Liah had been gone hardly a minute, when Aunt Lucy called in a tragic

whisper to Paul, her oldest boy, six years of age.

“You Paul, come here quick, by yo’self.”

Paul, used to obeying, came promptly, and was drawn close up to his

mother on the settee. “Now, you Paul, I wonder kin I trust you to do

something for me?”

Paul, somewhat disturbed, kept discreetly silent.

“I wish you’s a little bigger, but de Lord will hol’ you up. Paul, you

listen. When yo’ paw comes home from the sto’ an’ we’s all gone to bed

and got to sleep—you hearin’, Paul?”

“Yes’m.”

“You get up still’s a mouse, an’ you go git dat hoe yo’ paw brought home,

an’ don’t you make no noise takin’ it down, an’ you kerry dat hoe ober

to Mr. Benson’s; an’ you take de hoe what’s hangin’ dar—dat’s our hoe,

Paul, dat yo’ paw left dar by ’stake—you take dat hoe an’ bring it in the

woodshed, an’ don’t you nebber tell yo’ paw nothin’ ’bout it.”

The first sun rays were shining in at the window through the

morning-glories, the early breakfast was smoking on the table, the six

young Johnsons were struggling down in various stages of sleepiness, Aunt

Lucy was bending over the stove and ’Liah washing at the sink, when a

loud knock was heard at the kitchen door, which, being open, disclosed

Mr. Benson. By his side stood the village constable. In his hand was an

old and much battered hoe. ’Liah saw the hoe and his upper jaw fell. Aunt

Lucy’s gaze also was riveted on it.

“Goliah Johnson,” said the constable, “you’re my prisoner. You stole Mr.

Benson’s hoe.”

“’Fore de Lord, Mr. Benson, I ain’t got yo’ hoe. What you doin’ wid mine?”

“You needn’t pretend that you left your old hoe in my barn yesterday by

mistake, ’Liah Johnson,” burst in Mr. Benson, “as if you couldn’t tell

this old thing from my hoe. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“You may search dis place, Mr. Benson, from top to bottom an’ side to

side, an’ you won’t find no stiver of yo’ old hoe. How you got mine I

’clare I give up, but you kin see fo’ yourself. Now, here’s where I keeps

my hoe,” and ’Liah swung open the woodshed door.

There hung Mr. Benson’s new hoe.

“You Paul!” fairly shouted Aunt Lucy, pouncing on her young hopeful,

“what did you do las’ night?”

“Did jist what you tol’ me. Took back dat hoe an’ changed it for de one

in Mr. Benson’s barn.”

“Took back what hoe?” shouted ’Liah in his turn. “Lucy Johnsing, what you

been stickin’ yo’ fingers in?”

“Well, ’Liah, I ’lowed I warn’t gwine to have no hoe in dis house what

didn’t b’long to us by rights, ’n’ so I tol’ Paul to get up las’ night

an’ change de hoes back again, an’ if he did it, how dis one comes heah

beats me.”

“You Lucy Johnsing, see what you’s been an’ done wid yo’ meddlin’. I took

back dat hoe ’fore I went to bed, when I made ’s though I was gettin’ de

whetstun, an’ then you went and changed ’em back ag’in.”

“’Liah Johnsing, why you keep secrets from yo’ wedded wife? Why didn’t

you tell me ’bout dat?”

By this time Mr. Benson saw that there was something more in the matter

than he supposed, and sending away the constable he got from the worthy

couple, with much circumlocution, the story of the night’s mistakes.

Being a man with some sense of humor, he was quite mollified by the

comicalities of the situation, and even went so far as to take breakfast

with the Johnsons.

“An’ after dis, ’Liah Johnsing,” was Aunt Lucy’s moral, “you’d better

think twice ’fore you keep any mo’ secrets from yo’ lawful wedded wife!”

PATHETIC SELECTIONS

WHEN THE LITTLE LADY FELL ILL

ANONYMOUS

“Once upon a time,” there was a little lady, gentle and sweet. One day

she sent for the doctor. She was ill. She lay upon her bed with her

bronze hair afloat upon the pillow. She smiled as the doctor came in and

held out a hand tiny and soft and very white. Her teeth shone between

her crimson lips and there were beautiful violet lights in her brown

eyes. She was always full of life and spirit. Now here she was in bed and

sending for the doctor, she who had almost never before needed a doctor.

A great operation was decided upon. She only asked how long she would be

out of the sun. They thought the operation would heal. But it did not—and

there was another and another. For a little while after each operation

she did get back to the sun and was very happy, just as a butterfly might

be.

But at last they who watched knew that the frail little body could not

withstand another operation and that the end was near—very near. Then

came the fourteenth day of December, when, they told the young doctor,

it was his duty to tell the little butterfly. That night he walked the

streets—all the long night. It rained. But he did not feel it. In the

morning he understood why some must die, for in the rain and the night

he had unconsciously been with the God who gives and who takes away. He

went, gaunt with the night’s agony, but smiling, and took the two little

hands into his.

“Did you ever wonder,” he asked her, “as I have, why God gives life only

to take it away?”

“Just for love,” she smiled. “He wants the best Himself.”

“Do you know,” he said, “that you are very ill?”

“Am I?” she said, suddenly turning her great, startled eyes upon him.

“Haven’t you noticed,” he tried to go on, “that you—”

“No,” she said breathlessly. “You said I would get well—always said it.

And I knew that you knew, and I trusted you.”

“Doctors must do those things,” he pleaded, “because it keeps up the

patient’s courage. There is no medicine like hope.”

“I have never thought till now,” she halted, “that I would not get well.”

“I have known it for a long time.”

“And you have been so sweet and brave so as to—”

“No, I have deceived you only that you might live a little longer.”

They were silent for a long time. Then she reached out and touched his

hand.

“Then you mean,” she whispered, “that—”

He closed her lips, and she understood.

“Poor doctor! It is dreadful to make you the bearer of such a message.”

She thought silently a long while. “At first I was inclined to be

cross at you for deceiving me. But now—” a tear presently stole down

each pale young cheek “—but now,” she ended in a whisper, “it is

wonderful—beautiful—very, very beautiful! One can hardly believe that

there are people who willingly bear the sorrows of others.”

“I have been only selfish, I wanted to keep you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I understand.”

“How long?”

“Only a few days, perhaps a week—two weeks.”

“No,” she cried suddenly, “for that is Christmas. And the house will be

sad—in mourning. No! You must make me live. You must make them think I am

getting well.”

“Ah, if we only could! But I must not deceive you any longer. I said two

weeks—but it will not be that long.”

“It will—it must be!” she said, suddenly rising in bed. “We will

pray God, and you will help, and I will. There must be some sort of

tonic—a stimulant—tell me—tell me there is! You must not spoil their

Christmas—on—on my account!”

She smiled a little at the odd ending of her phrase and dropped back upon

the pillow, flushed and brilliant, splendid, so that even the doctor was

deceived, and hoped.

“If you can do that—keep up such a vigor by hope and happiness, the hope

of happiness for others—perhaps, with God’s help, we can—do what you

wish.”

“Of course we can. I know it!”

“Then so do I, and you shall have the uttermost minute.”

“And when it is done,”—the young spirit weakened,—“this, which you gave

me so long ago, shall be yours again—for a memory!”

She put his hand upon the ring which fitted her middle finger.

“A memory?” he whispered.

“Of the bravest and sweetest man in the world,” she said, putting a kiss

upon the ring. “Oh! but I don’t want to go.”

She was so wonderful—with such a tremendous spirit in that brave little

body. The doctor thought she might even then get well.

And when he came again, she did seem well—quite well. Her cheeks were

pink, her lips crimson, her hair was coiled and dressed. She smiled and

said: “Paint!”

But the trick had deceived her family even more than it had deceived the

doctor. For, one by one they came in and, standing at the foot of the

bed, seeing the pretty little painted creature, they were sure that she

was getting better rapidly—was, in fact, almost well! Her younger sister

romped in and leaped upon the bed, crying: “See, doctor! It is all as

it used to be! And it has been so long since it was all as it used to

be. Dearest, soon we will be out on Saint George’s Hill again, rolling

together on the grass, down, down and—”

“Yes,” cooed the little patient rapturously, “soon—very soon—.” But a

sudden sob ended the incident.

“Thank you—oh! thank you so much, doctor, dear, for giving back to me the

sweetest sister in all, all the whole world!”

Day by day more paint was required to cover the growing pallor, and

always more and more. And always more drugs to keep the eyes bright and

the spirits from flagging. When the young doctor wasn’t by her side he

was studying—searching—until there was nothing in all medical science for

prolonging life which he did not know.

The house became gay again because of the lie that was practiced. The

noises which had been hushed when there was danger were resumed.

There was at last a day when the doctor helped at the dressing and

painting; so near was the shadow that she might have flown at a breath.

And so they put upon her, lying in their hands, wonderful garments and

ribbons and embroideries. And even the little hands on that day had to be

carefully “made up” to conceal the livid blue. Then when all was ready,

they sat her royally up in bed, lighted the candles, closed the blinds

and let the waiting family enter—for it was the day before Christmas.

They came to music—the moment the door was opened—bursting with joy. A

processional they made of it!

“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but Thou art mighty;

Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”

Standing about her bed they sang that, and each separate heart was

welling a song of joy, because they thought she had come back to them!

Like those great ladies at Versailles, in the reign of the Grand Monarch,

who received in bed, she laughed, happy as the happiest of them.

Then came another procession, down to the last servant in the house,

bearing gifts. Then flowers and green things—until the beautiful

rose-embroidered covering of her bed was lost to sight under the load of

flowers, and these in turn were blotted out with the gifts. Wonderful

gifts they were! How could they not be? They were welcoming with them

their best beloved back to life! On her neck was girded a chain, on her

fingers were put rings, and in her ears were hung gems, so that she

blazed with jewels. Before her lay a splendid, filmy dress, and with it

were hat and gloves and a gay parasol.

All—all, gifts of life!

And yet another procession came, bearing holly and mistletoe and garlands

and crimson berries, and last of all, a Christmas tree, all lighted

and glowing with a hundred pretty things. And almost in a moment they

transformed the room into a Christmas bower. The bed, the walls, the

floor, bloomed in the red and white and green of Christmas.

So Christmas came—the gayest, the maddest, the saddest that house had

ever known.

But she had barely carried it through, and when the excitement would pass

the doctor knew that no stimulant devised by man could keep her on the

earth she had blessed an hour longer. Before the collapse quite came, the

doctor said:

“My patient is tired—”

“A little tired, yes,” she smiled at them. “To-morrow.”

So they all kissed the painted lips good-night and, wishing her a happy

to-morrow, went away.

The doctor moved to take the heavy gifts off the bed. She stopped him

with a tired smile and a shake of the head. It was all she could do just

then. Life was very low.

“No,” she shook, “I want them all just as they are. Mamma said

to-morrow—” she halted.

“Yes.”

“Poor mamma!”

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here, Captain, dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won.

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

—Written as a funeral poem for Lincoln, and one of the great poems of the

nineteenth century.

THE FACE OF THE MASTER

BY MYRTLE REED

In a little town in Italy there lived an old violin-maker whose only

pride and happiness was in the perfect instruments he made. He had a

little son called Pedro. Pedro was a dark little fellow with large, brown

eyes which seemed to hold a world of feeling and sometimes sadness. He

loved his mother dearly, but shrank somewhat from his stern father, who

was always so busy he hardly noticed him.

Pedro was errand boy for the little shop and tried to do his work

patiently, cheerfully and obediently. One day an unusually fine

instrument had been finished and the old man, in his joy and pride, held

it in position and touched the strings softly with the bow. Pedro, who

was sitting outside on the porch, heard the music and came running in to

hear it, but in his haste he did not see an exquisite piece of carving

on the floor and stepped upon it. Crack! it broke in two. Pedro’s father

became very angry and pushed him into his little bedroom and turned the

key in the lock.

In the morning Pedro’s father called him very early, as he had many

errands for the boy to do. All day Pedro trudged wearily back and forth

for his father. He went about his work as if in a dream, thinking

always of the music he had heard and wishing with all his heart that

he might play. Night was coming on and Pedro was sitting on the step

outside resting, when his father told him he had yet another errand

for him to do. Pedro was very tired, yet he did not say anything but

went immediately on the errand. When he had delivered the message, the

man showed him a short cut home. As Pedro was walking slowly home, he

stopped suddenly as he heard the sound of music. Could it be a violin? He

listened to find from whence it came. At last he decided it came from the

little vine-covered cottage across the lane. He walked slowly over and

sat down under the open window. The music was exquisite. As he listened

he heard the soft wind rustling through the trees, the sound of birds

calling to one another in the forest, the sound of rushing water as that

of a river as it flowed headlong into the ocean.

The music changed as he listened; he heard a soft, dreamy lullaby, then

again the sound of the ocean, of the waves beating upon the sand. As he

listened the music grew fainter, the moon came out from behind the cloud

and Pedro saw the face of the Master.

He was a bent old man with white hair and beautiful blue, shining eyes.

As the music ended in one long, sweet, trembling chord, Pedro saw the

Master bend his head over his violin, and as he quietly slipped away he

thought he heard the sound of sobbing.

Pedro walked the rest of the way home in a dream. As he came into

the work-shop he saw the beautiful violin and touched it tenderly,

caressingly. Oh, if he could only play! He went to bed, but could not

sleep. The beautiful music kept coming back again and again. At last he

arose, dressed himself and went into the work-shop. He picked up the

violin tenderly, lovingly, and went out to the orchard to where a little

brook ran merrily by. It was a beautiful night, calm and peaceful, a

soft wind whispered through the trees, through the stillness the sweet,

clear notes of a bird were heard. The witchery of the night, its calmness

and quiet beauty, seemed to want him to play. So placing the violin in

position, he ran the bow gently over the strings; at first the notes were

short, trembling, and broken. Soon it became very beautiful, and still

he played on and on. He did not notice that day was dawning, and upon

looking up he was frightened at seeing his father standing before him.

But his father smiled at him and said:

“My son, you are then a musician? The music was wonderful!”

Pedro smiled, but said nothing.

“You shall have lessons from the Master,” his father said. Pedro could

hardly believe it. Lessons from the Master! To learn to play!

After the day’s work was done Pedro and his father walked down the same

little, narrow street to the little vine-covered cottage that he had

seen the night before. Soon Pedro found himself in a little sitting-room

awaiting the Master. Soon the Master came, and Pedro’s father said, “If

you will teach my son to play I will make you the most beautiful violin

in the world.”

The Master was very well satisfied with his violin and he did not like to

teach. But he said to Pedro, “Do you like music?” Pedro smiled, his whole

soul in his eyes. The Master said, “Yes, you love it, you shall play.”

The next day Pedro came for his first lesson. He enjoyed it very much and

soon mastered the tedious exercises.

So the years passed and Pedro had become famous. The Master was growing

old; still the most beautiful violin had not been completed. One day

Pedro came to visit the Master and the housekeeper told him he was ill.

Pedro waited, hoping the Master might want him. Soon he returned home and

began to play. While he was playing his father told him that the Master’s

violin was finished. Pedro smiled sadly and said, “The Master is ill.”

That evening as he sat playing a messenger came and summoned him to the

Master’s house. He took the finished violin with him, and as he looked

into the Master’s room he saw him lying there on a couch, so thin, and

still, and white. He smiled as Pedro entered, and said, “You have come to

play for me, my son? The night is so long and I am so tired. Play, Pedro,

play!” Pedro showed him the newly finished violin, but he only smiled as

he nodded for Pedro to begin.

Pedro played, and played, and played. In the music he interwove all the

trials, sorrows and happiness of his childhood, and his love for the

Master. A soft wind rustled through the trees, the sound of a little

brooklet was heard and the birds calling to one another in the forest. It

all ended with one trembling chord. When he had finished the Master was

sitting up in bed. “Pedro, where did you learn to play that?”

Pedro smiled. “You taught me, Master. I always knew you must have had

some sorrow in your life or you never could have played so exquisitely.”

The Master said: “You are right.” And then he told him of his sorrowful

and suffering life. “Play it again, Pedro. Now you understand.”

Pedro played, and played, and played. This time there was a sweetness

that somehow made the sad strain less noticeable. The Master lay looking

out of the window; day was breaking. As the last sweet, trembling

note died away, Pedro looked into the face of the Master. There was a

beautiful smile on his face. For the Master the trials and sorrows of the

world were over. Pedro knelt down before the Master and kissed the thin,

white hand reverently, the hand that had made so many sad lives happy

with beautiful music.

VOICE FROM A FAR COUNTRY

The old couple were very lonely as they sat in their little kitchen that

wintry afternoon. It was their daughter’s birthday, their only child,

who had left them to go to the great, glittering world on the far side

of the water. There she had won fame with her voice, while they had

stayed behind in the little village and tried to be cheerful without her.

Usually they succeeded pretty well, but this birthday, of all days in the

year, was the hardest to bear; even Christmas was not so hard as this

birthday, which brought so vividly to their minds the memories of other

birthdays—the first one when the baby’s coming had found them awe-struck

with the joy and wonder of it all, and each succeeding year, as their

treasure grew to girlhood and from a girl to a sweet and winning woman,

then faded from their sight.

They had not seen her since, for money was scarce and time valuable. She

must work very hard, so she wrote them. The old couple tried to keep up a

conversation as they sat in the kitchen that wintry afternoon, but failed

miserably. Finally after a long silence the old man rose and said:

“Guess I’ll get the chores done before it storms, mother. Coming on to

snow fast.”

“All right, father, I’ll have supper ready for you when you come in.”

“You needn’t hurry about supper. Guess I’ll go to the post-office after I

get the critters fed. There might be a letter from Milly.”

“All right, father.”

There was a new note in the woman’s voice, for this was just what she had

been wishing her husband to do, but had not liked to have him take the

long trip to the post-office with the weather so threatening.

The old man went out, and the woman began to prepare the supper.

Twilight had come and she lighted an old-fashioned lamp, so clean that

it sparkled. As she set the table she hummed the refrain of a lullaby, a

little song she had often crooned when her arms had not been empty.

Suddenly the door flew open, letting in great gusts of wintry wind.

“Hurry and get that door shut, Pa. Warn’t there no letters?”

“No, but there’s this.”

The old man was carrying an old box almost too large for him to handle.

“When I went to the post-office I found there warn’t no letter and I was

considerably disappointed, but as I was going by Jones’s store, Jones he

comes to the door and says he, ‘Say, Si, there’s a box in here fer you!’

‘Fer me?’ says I.

“‘It come this afternoon by express, and I guess by the looks of it, it’s

from your daughter in forin’ parts,’ said he.

“So here ’tis, and now, mother, where’s the hatchet?”

The hatchet was brought and the box was opened.

“My, what a funny lookin’ thing! Looks like a small size sewing machine,

and here’s a brass horn, too. I wonder if Milly sent that for a joke or

what?”

Silas set the carved case of polished wood on the table, and the old

couple gazed in puzzled astonishment at what they saw under it. After a

silence the old man said:

“Perhaps there are some directions.” Going over to the box he found, as

he had prophesied, a paper of instructions.

“It’s a—P-H-O-N-O-G-R-A-P-H, and them there things air records. Well, I

know about as much as I did afore. I’ll follow out the directions and

see what happens. Wish I knew what it was; ’tain’t no kind of a farm

implement, that’s sartin, nor a potater parer, nor sewing machine. Well,

we’ll follow these rules and see what she does.”

The faces of the old couple were full of interest, as Silas attached the

spring and set the phonograph in motion. At first there was a peculiar

buzzing sound, but nothing unusual happened, and the old people were

beginning to look disappointed when, after the buzzing, came the sound

of a voice singing. Surprise, wonder, amazement, succeeded each other on

the old faces, as the first notes of “Home, Sweet Home” fell on their

startled ears.

“’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam—”

The old couple listened breathlessly.

“Silas, that’s Milly singing.”

“No, ’tain’t!”

But the denial died on his lips as he recognized the voice.

“A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which seek through the world is ne’er met with elsewhere.”

Clear and sweet came the tones, like pearls in their rounded purity. The

mother was crying bitterly.

“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain.”

These words came with ringing force, and it seemed to the old folks that

Milly, far away in Paris, stretched out her hands to them across the

water.

“Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

The old man was crying too, but the tears of father and mother were

not tears of sorrow, for the sting had gone out of their loneliness,

and as the music ceased peace fell like a mantle on the little country

home.—From _The Ladies’ Home Journal_.

LITTLE BROTHER

BY MADELEINE Z. DOTY

A TRUE STORY

It was a warm summer’s day in late August. No men were visible in the

Belgian hamlet. The women reaped in the fields; the insects hummed in the

dry, warm air; the house-doors stood open. On a bed in a room in one of

the cottages lay a woman. Beside her sat a small boy. He was still, but

alert, his eyes following the buzzing flies. With a bit of paper he drove

the intruders from the bed. His mother slept. It was evident from the

pale, drawn face that she was ill.

Suddenly the dreaming, silent, summer day was broken by the sound of

clattering hoofs. Some one was riding hurriedly through the town.

The woman moved uneasily. Her eyes opened. She smiled at the little boy.

“What is it, dear?”

The boy went to the window. Women were gathering in the street. He told

his mother and hurried from the room. Her eyes grew troubled. In a few

minutes the child was back, breathless and excited.

“Oh, mother, mother, the Germans are coming!”

The woman braced herself against the shock. At first she hardly grasped

the news. Then her face whitened, her body quivered and became convulsed.

Pain sprang to her eyes, driving out fear; beads of perspiration stood on

her forehead; a little animal cry of pain broke from her lips. The boy

gazed at her paralyzed, horrified; then he flung himself down beside the

bed and seized his mother’s hand.

“What is it, mother, what is it?”

The paroxysm of pain passed; the woman’s body relaxed, her hand reached

for the boy’s head and stroked it. “It’s all right, my son.” Then as the

pain began again, “Quick, sonny, bring auntie.”

The boy darted from the room. Auntie was the woman-doctor of B——. He

found her in the Square. The townspeople were wildly excited. The Germans

were coming. But the boy thought only of his mother. He tugged at

auntie’s sleeve. His frenzied efforts at last caught her attention. She

saw he was in need and went with him.

Agonizing little moans issued from the house as they entered. In an

instant the midwife understood. She wanted to send the boy away, but

she must have help. Who was there to fetch and carry? The neighbors,

terrified at their danger, were making plans for departure. She let the

boy stay.

Through the succeeding hour a white-faced little boy worked manfully. His

mother’s cries wrung his childish heart. Why did babies come this way? He

could not understand. Would she die? Had his birth given such pain? If

only she could speak! And once, as if realizing his necessity, his mother

did speak.

“It’s all right, my son; it will soon be over.”

That message brought comfort; but his heart failed when the end came. He

rushed to the window and put his little hands tight over his ears. It was

only for a moment. He was needed. His mother’s moans had ceased and a

baby’s cry broke the stillness.

The drama of birth passed, the midwife grew restless. She became

conscious of the outer world. There were high, excited voices; wagons

clattered over stones; moving-day had descended on the town. She turned

to the window. Neighbors with wheelbarrows and carts piled high with

household possessions hurried by. They beckoned to her.

For a moment the woman hesitated. She looked at the mother on the bed,

nestling her babe to her breast; then the panic of the outside world

seized her. Quickly she left the room.

The small boy knelt at his mother’s bedside, his little face against

hers. Softly he kissed the pale cheek. The boy’s heart had become a

man’s. He tried by touch and look to speak his love, his sympathy, his

admiration. His mother smiled at him as she soothed the baby, glad to be

free from pain. But presently the shouts and disorder of the departing

townspeople reached her ears. She stirred uneasily. Fear crept into her

eyes. Passionately she strained her little one to her.

“How soon, little son, how soon?”

The lad, absorbed in his mother, had forgotten the Germans. With a start

he realized the danger. His new-born manhood took command. His father was

at the front. He must protect his mother and tiny sister. His mother was

too ill to move, but they ought to get away. Who had a wagon? He hurried

to the window, but already even the stragglers were far down the road.

All but three of the horses had been sent to the front. Those three were

now out of sight with their overloaded wagons. The boy stood stupefied

and helpless. The woman on the bed stirred.

“My son,” she called. “My son!”

He went to her.

“You must leave me and go on.”

“I can’t, mother.”

The woman drew the boy down beside her. She knew the struggle to come.

How could she make him understand that his life and the baby’s meant more

to her than her own? Lovingly she stroked the soft cheek. It was a grave,

determined little face with very steady eyes.

“Son, dear, think of little sister. The Germans won’t bother with babies.

There isn’t any milk. Mother hasn’t any for her. You must take baby in

your strong little arms and run—run with her right out of this land into

Holland.”

But he could not be persuaded. The mother understood that love and a

sense of duty held him. She gathered the baby in her arms and tried to

rise, but the overtaxed heart failed, and she fell back half-fainting.

The boy brought water and bathed her head until the tired eyes opened.

“Little son, it will kill mother if you don’t go.”

The boy’s shoulders shook. He knelt by the bed. A sob broke from him.

Then there came the faint, far-distant call of the bugle. Frantically the

mother gathered up her baby and held it out to the boy.

“For mother’s sake, son, for mother.”

In a flash the boy understood. His mother had risked her life for the

tiny sister. She wanted the baby saved more than anything else in the

world. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He wound his arms about his

mother in a long, passionate embrace.

“I’ll take her, mother; I’ll get her there safely.”

The bugle grew louder. Through the open window on the far-distant road

could be seen a cloud of dust. There was not a moment to lose. Stooping,

the boy caught up the red, squirming baby. Very tenderly he placed the

little body against his breast and buttoned his coat over his burden.

The sound of marching feet could now be heard. Swiftly he ran to the

door. As he reached the threshold he turned. His mother, her eyes shining

with love and hope, was waving a last good-by. Down the stairs, out of

the back door, and across the fields sped the child. Over grass and

across streams flew the sure little feet. His heart tugged fiercely to go

back, but that look in his mother’s face sustained him.

He knew the road to Holland. It was straight to the north; but he kept to

the fields. He didn’t want the baby discovered. Mile after mile, through

hour after hour, he pushed on, until twilight came. He found a little

spring and drank thirstily. Then he moistened the baby’s mouth. The

little creature was very good. Occasionally she uttered a feeble cry,

but most of the time she slept. The boy was intensely weary. His feet

ached. He sat down under a great tree and leaned against it. Was it right

to keep a baby out all night? Ought he to go to some farmhouse? If he

did, would the people take baby away? His mother had said, “Run straight

to Holland.” But Holland was twenty miles away. He opened his coat and

looked at the tiny creature. She slept peacefully.

The night was very warm. He decided to remain where he was. It had grown

dark. The trees and bushes loomed big. His heart beat quickly. He was

glad of the warm, soft, live little creature in his arms. He had come

on this journey for his mother, but suddenly his boy’s heart opened to

the tiny, clinging thing at his breast. His little hand stroked the baby

tenderly. Then he stooped, and softly his lips touched the red, wrinkled

face. Presently his little body relaxed, and he slept. He had walked

eight miles. Through the long night the deep sleep of exhaustion held

him. He lay quite motionless, head and shoulders resting against the

tree-trunk, and the new-born babe enveloped in the warmth of his body and

arms slept also. The feeble cry of the child woke him. The sun was coming

over the horizon and the air was alive with the twitter of birds.

At first he thought he was at home and had awakened to a long happy

summer’s day. Then the fretful little cries brought back memory with a

rush. His new-born love flooded him. Tenderly he laid the little sister

down. Stretching his stiff and aching body, he hurried for water. Very

carefully he put a few drops in the little mouth and wet the baby’s lips

with his little brown finger. This proved soothing and the cries ceased.

The tug of the baby’s lips on his finger clutched his heart. The helpless

little thing was hungry, and he too was desperately hungry. What should

he do? His mother had spoken of milk. He must get milk. Again he gathered

up his burden and buttoned his coat. From the rising ground on which he

stood he could see a farmhouse with smoke issuing from its chimney. He

hurried down to the friendly open door. A kind woman gave him food. She

recognized him as a little refugee bound for Holland. He had difficulty

in concealing the baby, but fortunately she did not cry. The woman saw

that he carried something, but when he asked for milk she concluded he

had a pet kitten. He accepted this explanation. Eagerly he took the

coveted milk and started on.

But day-old babies do not know how to drink. When he dropped milk into

the baby’s mouth she choked and sputtered. He had to be content with

moistening her mouth and giving her a milk-soaked finger.

Refreshed by sleep and food, the boy set off briskly. Holland did not

now seem so far off. If only his mother were safe! Had the Germans been

good to her? These thoughts pursued and tormented him. As before, he kept

off the beaten track, making his way through open meadows and patches of

trees. But as the day advanced, the heat grew intense. His feet ached,

his arms ached, and, worst of all, the baby cried fretfully.

At noon he came to a little brook sheltered by trees. He sat down on the

bank and dangled his swollen feet in the cool, fresh stream. But his

tiny sister still cried. Suddenly a thought came to him. Placing the

baby on his knees, he undid the towel that enveloped her. There had been

no time for clothes. Then he dipped a dirty pocket-handkerchief in the

brook and gently sponged the hot, restless little body. Very tenderly

he washed the little arms and legs. That successfully accomplished, he

turned the tiny creature and bathed the small back. Evidently this was

the proper treatment, for the baby grew quiet. His heart swelled with

pride. Reverently he wrapped the towel around the naked little one and,

administering a few drops of milk, again went on.

All through that long, hot afternoon he toiled. His footsteps grew slower

and slower; he covered diminishing distances. Frequently he stopped to

rest, and now the baby had begun again to cry fitfully. At one time his

strength failed. Then he placed the baby under a tree and rising on his

knees uttered a prayer:

“O God, she’s such a little thing, help me to get her there.”

Like a benediction came the cool breeze of the sunset hour, bringing

renewed strength.

* * * * *

In the afternoon of the following day a wagon stopped before a Belgian

refugee-camp in Holland. Slowly and stiffly a small boy slid to the

ground. He had been picked up just over the border by a friendly farmer,

and driven to camp. He was dirty, bedraggled and footsore. Very kindly

the ladies’ committee received him. He was placed at the table and a bowl

of hot soup was set before him. He ate awkwardly with his left hand. His

right hand held something beneath his coat, which he never for a moment

forgot. The women tried to get his story, but he remained strangely

silent. His eyes wandered over the room and back to their faces. He

seemed to be testing them. Not for an hour, not until there was a faint

stirring in his coat, did he disclose his burden. Then, going to her

whom he had chosen as most to be trusted, he opened his jacket. In a

dirty towel lay a naked, miserably thin, three-days’-old baby.

Mutely holding out the forlorn object, the boy begged help. Bit by bit

they got his story. Hurriedly a Belgian refugee mother was sent for.

She was told what had happened, and she took the baby to her breast.

Jealously the boy stood guard while his tiny sister had her first meal.

But the spark of life was very low.

For two days the camp concentrated on the tiny creature. The boy never

left his sister’s side. But her ordeal had been too great. It was

only a feeble flicker of life at best, and during the third night the

little flame went out. The boy was utterly crushed. He had now but one

thought—to reach his mother. It was impossible to keep the news from him

longer. He would have gone in search. Gently he was told of the skirmish

that had destroyed the Belgian hamlet. There were no houses or people in

the town that had once been his home.

* * * * *

“That is his story,” ended the friendly little Dutch woman.

“And his father?” I inquired.

“Killed at the front,” was the reply.

I rose to go, but could not get the boy out of my mind. What a world!

What intolerable suffering! Was there no way out? Then the ever-recurring

phrase of the French and Belgian soldiers came to me. When I had

shuddered at ghastly wounds, at death, at innumerable white crosses on

a bloody battlefield, invariably, in dry, cynical, hopeless tones, the

soldier would make the one comment,—

“_C’est la guerre; que voulez-vous?_”—“It is war; what would you?”

DRAMATIC SELECTIONS

BROWN WOLF

BY JACK LONDON

The Klondiker’s face took on a contemptuous expression as he said

finally, “I reckon there’s nothin’ in sight to prevent me takin’ the dog

right here an’ now.”

Walt’s face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders

seemed to stiffen and grow tense. His wife fluttered apprehensively into

the breach.

“Maybe Mr. Miller is right,” she said. “I’m afraid that he is. Wolf does

seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of Brown. He made

friends with him instantly, and you know that’s something he never did

with anybody before. Besides, look at the way he barked. He was bursting

with joy. Joy over what? Without doubt at finding Mr. Miller.”

Walt’s striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with

hopelessness.

“I guess you’re right, Madge,” he said. “Wolf isn’t Wolf, but Brown, and

he must belong to Mr. Miller.”

“Perhaps Mr. Miller will sell him?” she suggested. “We can buy him.”

Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to

be generous in response to generousness.

“I had five dogs,” he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper

his refusal. “He was the leader. They was the crack team of Alaska.

Nothin’ could touch ’em. In 1898 I refused five thousand dollars for the

bunch. Dogs was high then anyway; but that wasn’t what made the fancy

price. It was the team itself. Brown was the best in the team. That

winter I refused twelve hundred for him. I didn’t sell ’m then an’ I

ain’t a-sellin’ ’m now. Besides, I think a mighty lot of that dog. I’ve

ben lookin’ for ’m for three years. It made me fair sick when I found

he’d ben stole—not the value of him, but the—well, I liked ’m. I couldn’t

believe my eyes when I seen ’m just now. I thought I was dreamin’. It

was too good to be true. Why, I was his wet-nurse. I put ’m to bed, snug

every night. His mother died, and I brought ’m up on condensed milk at

two dollars a can when I couldn’t afford it in my own coffee. He never

knew any mother but me.”

Madge began to speak:

“But the dog,” she said. “You haven’t considered the dog.”

Skiff Miller looked puzzled.

“Have you thought about him?” she asked.

“Don’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” was the response.

“Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter,” Madge went on. “Maybe he

has his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You give him no

choice. It had never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer

California to Alaska. You consider only what you like. You do with him as

you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.”

This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed as

he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of his indecision.

“If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your

happiness also,” she urged.

Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance

of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.

“What do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.

It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“D’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”

She nodded her head with positiveness. “I’m sure of it.”

Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the

same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal.

“He was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never loafed

on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into shape. He’s

got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say

to him. Look at ’m now. He knows we’re talkin’ about him.”

The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws, ears

erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the

sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other.

“An’ there’s a lot of work in ’m yet. He’s good for years to come. An’ I

do like him.”

Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed it

again without speaking. Finally he said:

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your remarks, ma’am, has some weight in

them. The dog’s worked hard, and maybe he’s earned a soft berth an’ has

got a right to choose. Anyway, we’ll leave it up to him. Whatever he says

goes. You people stay right here settin’ down; I’ll say ‘good-by’ and

walk off casual-like. If he wants to stay, he can stay. If he wants to

come with me, let ’m come. I won’t call ’m to come an’ don’t you call ’m

to come back.”

He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and added, “Only you must play

fair. No persuadin’ after my back is turned.”

“We’ll play fair,” Madge began, but Skiff Miller broke in on her

assurances.

“I know the ways of women,” he announced. “Their hearts is soft. When

their hearts is touched they’re likely to stack the cards, look at

the bottom of the deck, an’ lie—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—I’m only

discoursin’ about women in general.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Madge quavered.

“I don’t see as you’ve got any call to thank me,” he replied; “Brown

ain’t decided yet. Now, you won’t mind if I go away slow. It’s no more’n

fair, seein’ I’ll be out of sight inside a hundred yards.”

Madge agreed and added, “And I promise you faithfully that we won’t do

anything to influence him.”

“Well, then, I might as well be gettin’ along,” Skiff Miller said, in the

ordinary tones of one departing.

At this change in his voice Wolf lifted his head quickly, and still more

quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. He sprang up

on his hind legs, resting his fore-paws on her hip and at the same time

licking Skiff Miller’s hand. When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf

repeated his act, resting his weight on Walt and licking both men’s hands.

“It ain’t no picnic, I can tell you that,” were the Klondiker’s last

words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail.

For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all

eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and

retrace his steps. Then, with a quick, low whine, Wolf sprang after him,

overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant tenderness

and strove gently to make him pause.

Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching

his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the

retreating man.

Wolf’s perturbation began to wax. He desired ubiquity. He wanted to be

in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and

steadily the distance was increasing. He sprang about excitedly, making

short, nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in

painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to

choose, uttering quick, sharp whines and beginning to pant.

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, his

mouth opening and closing with jerky movements, each time opening

wider. The jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms

that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense than the

preceding one. And in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to

vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from

the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register

of the human ear. All this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to

howling.

But just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat,

the wide open mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked

long and steadily at the retreating man. Suddenly Wolf turned his head,

and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded Walt. The appeal was

unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and

no clew as to what his conduct should be.

A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail

excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck

by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge. Hitherto he had ignored

her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. He went

over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his

nose—an old trick of his when begging for favors. He backed away from her

and began writhing and twisting playfully, curveting and prancing, half

rearing and striking his fore-paws to the earth, struggling with all his

body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to

express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance.

This too he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of these

humans who had never been cold before. No response could he draw from

them, no help could he get. They did not consider him. They were as dead.

He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller was

rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view. Yet he never

turned his head, plodding straight onward; slowly and methodically, as

though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back.

And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to reappear.

He waited a long minute, quietly, silently without movement as though

turned to stone—withal stone quick with eagerness and desire. He barked

once, and waited. Then he turned and trotted back to Walt Irvine. He

sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail

where it curved emptily from view.

The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to

increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for the meadow larks,

there was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies drifted silently

through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge

gazed triumphantly at her husband.

A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and deliberation

marked his movements. He did not glance at the man and woman. His eyes

were fixed up the trail. He had made up his mind. They knew it. And they

knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just begun.

He broke into a trot and Madge’s lips pursed, forming an avenue for

the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. But the

caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at her husband,

and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. The pursed lips

relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.

Wolf’s trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he made. Not

once did he turn his head, his wolf’s brush standing out straight behind

him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone.—From

“Love of Life,” copyrighted by _The Macmillan Co._, New York, and used by

their kind permission.

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS

BY WILSON BARRETT

It was a festival day in Rome. Nero had decreed it. In the Circus was to

be given a performance the like of which had never before been witnessed.

The whole city was excited by the rumors of the numbers of Christians

doomed to die, and of the ferocity of the beasts they were to encounter.

The dungeon beneath the amphitheatre in which the Christians were

imprisoned was a large, gloomy, stone vault, destitute of furniture of

any kind.

Great was the contrast between the dark, damp cell and the sunlit arena,

crowded with eager, gayly dressed patricians. In the dungeon were scores

of men and women waiting for the signal to pass forth to a certain and

cruel death; in the auditorium was a seething mass of humanity, thousands

upon thousands impatiently awaiting their coming forth, and gloating

already in imagination upon the horrors they must undergo.

The roars of the hungry beasts could be faintly heard, even when

the doors were closed; so could the equally merciless howls of the

blood-thirsty populace. How they were to die had not been told the

martyrs; only this they knew, that they were to die, and that every

endeavor would be made to make their deaths as horrible, revolting and

cruel as possible.

Among them were a few that trembled and felt sick with physical fear, but

not one murmured. Their eyes were mentally fixed upon the Cross.

Again there was a loud call of the trumpets. The doors were thrown open,

and the arena beyond could be seen by the prisoners, flooded with golden

sunshine.

“Now, then, march!”

For a moment there was a pause, but almost before it could be realized

Mercia’s clear, sweet voice rang out the first words of their beloved

hymn:

“Shepherd of souls that stumble by the way,

Pilot of vessels storm-tossed in the night,

Healer of wounds, for help to Thee we pray.”

Singing these words with uplifted eyes and undaunted hearts, those noble

martyrs went calmly and resignedly through the dark Valley of the Shadow

of Death to the everlasting peace that awaited them beyond.

Mercia, a beautiful girl, was left alone in the dungeon. It was generally

understood that Marcus Superbus, the handsome, wealthy young Prefect of

Rome, was madly in love with this Christian girl, and the adventuress who

hoped to entrap Marcus prevailed upon Nero to make Mercia’s punishment

unique and horrible.

She sank upon her knees with her face pressed against the iron bars.

Presently the door leading to the corridor was unbarred. Two officers

entered, ushering in Marcus, who started on finding Mercia alone.

Dismissing the guards, he closed the door and gazed with infinite

tenderness upon the white figure at his feet—Mercia.

For a time Marcus could not speak; his heart felt like bursting with

grief for this beautiful girl. Here in this loathsome dungeon she could

still preserve her courage and could still pray for forgiveness for her

persecutors.

“Mercia! Mercia!”

“What would you with me?”

“I came to save thee. I have knelt to Nero for thy pardon. He will grant

it upon one condition—that thou dost renounce thy false worship—”

“It is not false! It is true and everlasting.”

“Everlasting? Nothing is everlasting! There is no after-life; the end is

here. Men come and go; they drink their little cup of woe or happiness,

and then sleep—the sleep that knows no awakening.”

“Art thou sure of that? Ask thyself, are there no inward monitors that

silently teach thee there is a life to come?”

“All men have wishes for a life to come, if it could better this.”

“It _will_ better this, if this life be _well_ lived. Hast thou lived

well?”

“No; thou hast taught me that I never knew the shame of sin until I knew

thy purity. Ah! whence comes thy wondrous grace?”

“If I have any grace it comes from Him who died on Calvary’s cross that

grace might come to all.”

“Thou dost believe this?”

“I _do_ believe it.”

“But thou hast no proof.”

“Yes. The proof is here.”

“Oh, thou dost believe so? All men, all nations have their gods. This one

bows down to a thing of stone, and calls it his god; another to the sun,

and calls it his god. A god of brass—a god of gold—a god of wood. Each

tells himself _his_ is the _true_ god. All are mistaken.”

“All _are_ mistaken.”

“And thou? What is thy God? A fantasy—a vision—a superstition. Wilt thou

die for _such_ a thing?”

“I will die for my Master gladly.”

“Mercia, hear me! Thou shalt _not_ die! I cannot let thee go! I love you

so! I love you so!”

“Thou hast told me so before, and wouldst have slain thy soul and mine.”

“I grant it. I did not know. I was blind! Now I see my love for thee is

love indeed. The brute is dead in me, the man is living. Thy purity that

I would have smirched hath cleansed me. Live, Mercia! Live and be my

wife!”

“Thy wife? Thy wife? Oh, Marcus, hear me. This love I speak of came, I

know not whence, nor how, then; now I know it came from Him who gave me

life. I receive it joyfully because He gave it. Think you He gave it

to tempt me to betray Him? Nay, Marcus, He gave it to me to uphold and

strengthen me. I will be true to Him!”

“Thou wilt love?”

“I will not deny Him who died for me!”

“Mercia, if thy God exists He made us both, the one for the other.

Hearken! I am rich beyond all riches. I have power, skill, strength; with

these the world would be my slave, my vassal. Nero is hated, loathed—is

tottering on his throne. I have friends in plenty who would help me—the

throne of Cæsar might be mine—and thou shalt share it with me if thou

wilt but live. The crown of an Empress shall deck that lovely head if

thou wilt but live—only consent to live!”

“My crown is not of earth, Marcus; it awaits me there.”

“I cannot part from thee and live, Mercia! I have, to save thy precious

life, argued and spoken against thy faith, thy God, but to speak truth

to thee, I have been sorely troubled since I first saw thee. Strange

yearnings of the spirit come in the lonely watches of the night; I battle

with them, but they will not yield. I tremble with strange fears, strange

thoughts, strange hopes. If thy faith be true, what is this world?—a

little tarrying-place, a tiny bridge between two vast eternities, that

from which we have traveled, that towards which we go. Oh, but to know!

How can I know, Mercia? Teach me how to know!”

“Look at the Cross, and pray, ‘Help Thou my unbelief.’ Give up all that

thou hast, and follow Him!”

“Would He welcome even me?”

“Yea, even thee, Marcus.”

Now there sounded on their ears another call from the trumpets. The

brazen doors slid back, the guards entered, followed this time by

Tigellinus.

“Prefect, the hour has come. Cæsar would have this maid’s decision. Doth

she renounce Christus and live, or cling to him and die?”

“Mercia, answer him!”

“I cling to Him and die. Farewell, Marcus!”

“No, not ‘Farewell.’ Death cannot part us. I, too, am ready! My lingering

doubts are dead; the light hath come! Return to Cæsar; tell him Christus

hath triumphed. Marcus, too, is a Christian.”

His face shone with the same glorious radiance that had transfigured the

features of Mercia. They were glorified by the presence of Him who had

promised to them, even as He had promised to the penitent thief dying on

the Cross beside Him—“Verily, I say unto thee, this day shalt thou be

with me in Paradise.”

THE LITTLE FIR TREE

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim and pointed and shiny, which

stood in a forest in the midst of some big fir trees, broad and tall and

shadowy green. The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy because he was not

big like the others. When the birds came flying into the woods and lit on

the branches of the big trees, and built their nests there, he used to

call up to them, “Come down, come down, rest in my branches!” But they

always said, “Oh, no, no, you are too little.”

And when the splendid wind came blowing and singing through the forest,

it bent and rocked and swung the tops of the big trees and murmured to

them. Then the Little Fir Tree looked up and called—“Oh, please, dear

wind, come down and play with me!” But he always said, “Oh, no, you are

too little, you are too little.” And in the winter the white snow fell

softly, softly, and covered the great trees all over with wonderful caps

and coats of white. The Little Fir Tree close down in the cover of the

others would call up, “Oh, please, dear snow, give me a cap too! I want

to play too!” But the snow always said—“Oh, no, no, no, you are too

little, you are too little.”

The worst of all was when men came with sledges and teams of horses. They

came to cut the big trees and carry them away. And when one had been

cut down and carried away, the others talked about it, and nodded their

heads. And the Little Fir Tree listened, and heard them say that when you

were carried away so, you might become the mast of a mighty ship and go

far away over the ocean and see many wonderful things, or you might be

a part of a fine house in a great city and see much of life. The Little

Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life but he was always too little; the

men passed him by. But, by and by, one cold winter’s morning, men came

with a sledge and horses and after they had cut here and there, they came

to the circle of trees round the Little Fir Tree and looked all about.

“There are none little enough,” they said. Oh! how the Little Fir Tree

pricked up his needles. “Here is one,” said one of the men; “it is just

little enough.” And he touched the Little Fir Tree. The little Fir Tree

was happy as a bird, because he knew they were about to cut him down.

And when he was being carried away on the sledge he lay wondering so

contentedly whether he should be the mast of a ship or part of a fine

house in the city. But when they came to the town he was taken out and

set upright in a tub and placed on the edge of a sidewalk in a row of

other fir trees all small, but none so little as he. And then the Little

Fir Tree began to see life. People kept coming to look at the trees and

take them away, but always when they saw the Little Fir Tree, they shook

their heads and said, “It is too little, too little!” Until finally two

children came along, hand in hand, looking carefully at all the small

trees. When they saw the Little Fir Tree, they cried out, “We’ll take

this one; it is just little enough!” They took him out of his tub and

carried him away between them. And the happy Little Fir Tree spent all

his time wondering what it could be that he was just little enough for;

he knew it could hardly be a mast or a house since he was going away

with children. He kept wondering while they took him in through some big

doors and set him up in another tub on the table in a bare little room.

Pretty soon they went away and came back again with a big basket carried

between them. Then some pretty ladies, with white caps on their heads and

white aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing little parcels. The

children took things out of the basket and began to play with the Little

Fir Tree, just as he had often wished the birds and wind and snow to

do; he felt their soft little touches on his head and his twigs and his

branches, and when he looked down at himself, as far as he could look, he

saw that he was all hung with gold and silver chains!

There were strings of fluffy white stuff drooping around him. His twigs

held little gold nuts and pink rosy balls and silver stars. He had little

pink and white candles in his arms, but last and most wonderful of all,

the children hung a beautiful white floating doll angel over his head!

The Little Fir Tree could not breathe for joy and wonder. What was it

that he was now? Why was this glory for him? After a time every one went

away and left him. It grew dusk and the Little Fir Tree began to hear

strange sounds through the closed doors. Sometimes he heard a child

crying. He was beginning to be lonely. It grew more and more shadowy. All

at once the doors opened and the two children came in. Two of the pretty

ladies were with them. They came to the Little Fir Tree and quickly

lighted all the pink and white candles. Then the two pretty ladies took

hold of the table with the Little Fir Tree on it and pushed it, very

smoothly and quickly, out of the doors, across a hall and in at another

door. The Little Fir Tree had a sudden sight of a long room with many

little white beds in it, of children propped up on pillows in the beds,

and of other children in great wheel chairs and others hobbling about

or sitting in little chairs. He wondered why all the little children

looked so white and tired; he did not know he was in a hospital. But

before he could wonder any more, his breath was quickly taken away by

the shout those little white children gave. “Oh, Oh! M—M—” they cried.

“How pretty!” “How beautiful!” “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” He knew they must

mean him, for all their shining eyes were looking straight at him. He

stood straight as a mast and quivered in every needle for joy. Presently

one weak little voice called out, “It’s the nicest Christmas tree I ever

saw!” And then, at last, the Little Fir Tree knew what he was; he was a

Christmas tree! And from his shiny head to his feet he was glad, through

and through, because he was just little enough to be the nicest kind of a

tree in the world.

A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK

BY JULIET WILBUR TOMPKINS

The two were amazingly, even absurdly alike, as they faced each other

across the library table. The very scowl that lay heavy on the girl’s

forehead was an obvious inheritance from the parental scowl opposite.

“I’m a self-made man, Paula—plain Western goods. It’s too late to teach

me fancy values. I don’t go a hang on anything but facts. Some folks can

put a paper frill around a mutton chop and call it lamb, but that ain’t

my way. I see things as they are.”

“Well, I’m the daughter of a self-made man, and of a New England

school-teacher too; if you can beat that combination for seeing things,

as they are—”

“It’s your notion that you see this young feller as he is?”

“I do. And he has got just the things that you and I haven’t and need.”

“He has, eh? You might mention one or two.”

“Ancestry.”

“Oh, pshaw!”

“Well, then, a sense of humor.”

“A—what?” If she had said a “top-knot,” he could not have looked more

amazedly disgusted.

“A sense of humor. And he’s got common sense too. He’s poor and alone

in the world and not awfully practical, but I tell you, father, there’s

stuff in him that we hustlers have got to get into our families sooner or

later, if we’re going to the top. And—I—am.”

“H’m. On sixty dollars a month?”

“If necessary. Oh, I don’t pretend that Ralph has done much in business

yet. Few men have, at nineteen.”

“At nineteen I had been at work seven years, and had been raised six

times, both in salary and position. This young feller tells me he has

been at work three years, and has been raised once—in salary only.”

“And that once was since he became interested in me; there is one thing

you have got to take into account, father—that Ralph with me will have a

very different career from Ralph without me.”

“But, Paula, is that just your notion of a husband?”

“Ralph is just my notion of a husband.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but he ain’t mine, and that settles it. You’ll live to

thank me for it.”

“Well, here’s fair warning: I don’t give him up.”

“Oh, I guess you will.”

“You are trying to make the worst mistake of your life, father,” she said

reasonably. “Now a mushy daughter would give in and let you repent it

later; but I think it’s a lot better to save you from it, and _you’ll_

live to thank me yet.”

“I’ll live to take you East and leave you there with your Aunt Jennie,

till you’ve got sense, if I hear any more of this.”

“Well, then, you won’t hear any more about it.” And she went out.

“The little cuss!” he muttered. Then he sat down and wrote a letter

beginning, “Dear Jennie,” and ending, “For heaven’s sake, wire that you

will take her, or she’ll be off with him—by the front door and in broad

daylight, understand. She’s a straight little cuss. What an everlasting

shame she wasn’t a boy!”

Even as he signed: “Your aff. Bro.,” the massive front door banged; but

he was too absorbed to notice it. Paula, calm and serious, carrying a

suit-case, took a car for the station where a young man was nervously

pacing the platform. He stood watching her for a moment before she saw

him. The clear red of her cheeks was no deeper than usual, her blue

eyes were unclouded, in all her handsome, well-dressed person there was

not one hurried movement. She even paused to compare her watch with the

station clock. An irrepressible laugh brought the color back to his

face. “Oh, Paula, so you are here,” as he hurried to meet her. “You elope

as calmly as you would go shopping.”

“It’s a far more sensible proceeding! Have you the tickets?”

“Not yet, dear Paula, I want you enough to commit almost any crime—you

know that, and yet I can’t quite square it with myself—this running away

with a man’s daughter. And—such a rich man, confound it! I’ve been awake

all night thinking over one thing. You swept me off my feet yesterday;

but to-day—”

“But, Ralph, I gave father fair warning. And this happens to be a case

where he is wrong and I am right. I don’t think that just because I’m—I’m

fond of you, but I can see, you know, just what you have got, and what

the other men I know haven’t got, better than father can. He will see it

too, some day, and thank me—I told him so. I’m not really eloping, since

eighteen is the age for a girl in this state. And the fact that you’re

not of age yet doesn’t matter, for you haven’t any parents or guardians

to object. And father needn’t give us any money—we can get along with

yours and mine. Now the train is due in three minutes and, of course, you

needn’t marry me if you don’t want to. But if you do, you’d better get

the tickets.”

Three hours later the two emerged from a cab in front of an imposing

courthouse and followed endless lengths of unclean, tessellated pavement

until they reached a door bearing the significant sign: “Marriage

Licenses.” The clerk had the engraved forms out before anything coherent

had been said. He was a hurried, dry little man, who appeared suffering

to say, “Step lively, please!” at every pause.

“Parents or guardian’s consent?”

“I have no parents or guardian.”

“Can’t issue license to you then.”

“What?—why—why not?”

“Law of the state.”

“But I am of age!”

“Oh, yes, you can get married all right, but he can’t.”

“But what can we do?”

“Wait two years, or get a guardian and obtain his consent.” And Cupid

turned firmly back to the papers on his desk.

They went out into the corridor and, finding a bench in a windowed

recess, dropped helplessly down on it while Ralph gave voice to his

personal opinion of the state law.

“Swearing isn’t going to help, Ralph,” said Paula decidedly. “Now we’ve

got to consider everything.”

“But the old fool—when I haven’t a soul who could raise the least—”

“Yes, dear. Now suppose we take up each possibility in turn. It’s

half-past twelve, and there isn’t a train back till five-twenty, too late

to head off my letter to father.”

“Oh, it would be too flat!”

“And yet we don’t know a soul in this city, and we can’t stay here

unmarried.”

“I was a beast, an ass, to get you into such a mess. Perhaps some sort

of a minister could marry us without a license. I know they do in some

states.”

“Go ask him.” But he came back dejectedly.

“Can’t be done; I ought to be hanged!”

“Well, suppose we go and get lunch. I want a cup of coffee and a ham

sandwich.”

They found it near by, at a marble counter, and presently took up their

problem with renewed courage.

“Of course, we can’t stay here unmarried. If we don’t find a way before

five-twenty—we must go back—and father will probably take me East by the

next train.”

“And quite right. I wouldn’t let my daughter marry a blithering idiot who

could get her into a scrape like this.”

“I shouldn’t mind father’s rage, but I should hate his crowing. I can’t

bear to be beaten like this, but of course, if you don’t try to think, we

might as well go back to the station.”

“But what can thinking do against a set of darn fool state laws?” he

burst out. “If I had only had the sense to set up a guardian—” He broke

off at her gasp of excitement. Her eyes were fixed on space, big with a

growing idea, for a breathless moment; then she turned to him radiant,

both fists clenched on the counter.

“Ralph, I’ll adopt you! Anybody of age can adopt anybody who isn’t. Then

I will give my consent and there we are!”

He stared at her speechlessly; then he hid his face in his hands and gave

way to wild laughter.

“Have you anything against it?”

“No—no! Nothing!”

“Come on, then. We shall have to hurry.”

“The Court,” to whom they were referred for information, proved to be a

huge, middle-aged, kindly person. If marriage was difficult under the

state laws, adoption was comparatively easy.

“Now what is the very shortest time in which it could be done?”

“Oh, it need not take much time. A couple of weeks would be ample.”

Two pairs of dismayed eyes consulted each other.

“Couldn’t you do it in less?”

“Why, I don’t know. If the circumstances were extraordinary—”

“Couldn’t you do it before five o’clock to-day?”

“To-day?”

“We came down here to be married, but were refused a license because I am

not of age, and hadn’t anybody to give consent. But if this lady, who is

of age, could legally adopt me before the marriage bureau closed, then,

you see, she could give the necessary consent.”

The Court laughed until his whole bulk was a heaving frame of merriment.

But he was absorbed again in an instant, and after a moment’s

deliberation he took down their names and ages and wrote briefly:

“And you say the child is willing?”

“He seems to be.”

Half an hour later, Paula Dennison had been formally appointed guardian

of her future lord and master, and had given her written consent to

his marriage. The Court himself conducted them to the license bureau,

explained matters to the dry little clerk, dryer and more hurried

than ever, witnessed the marriage, kissed the bride, escorted them

down-stairs, and put them into a cab.

The Court was still standing to smile after the departing carriage when

another came lurching up from the direction of the station. Even before

it could stop, a middle-aged man had burst out and was striding up the

steps with dark and concerted purpose on his flushed face. The Court

stared at him, at first absently, then with dawning suspicion—chin, blue

eyes, carriage—surely such a resemblance could not be a mere coincidence!

After a brief hesitation he discreetly followed, and suspicion grew to

conviction as the man turned to the marriage license bureau. The Court,

lurking in the shadow of the open door, heard him demand whether a young

woman named Dennison had tried to get married there to-day.

“Married fifteen minutes ago.”

“But they couldn’t be—the boy wasn’t of age. ’Tain’t legal. You had no

right to issue a license. Why, I’ll have you—”

“The applicant had the written consent of his guardian.”

“But he hadn’t got a guardian—I found that out before I started. He was

fooling you. It’s a—”

Paula’s written consent was laid before his eyes.

“The lady took out papers of guardianship, and so her consent was valid.”

“Adopted him? Adopted him and then married him! The little cuss! Adopted

him, by golly! Oh, why wasn’t she a boy? Oh, well, I guess it’s all

right. Adopted him! And I never thought of that!”

THE HONOR OF THE WOODS

ANONYMOUS

The principal character of this story is John Norton, an aged trapper and

scout in the Adirondacks, who is adored by the people for his bravery and

courage. And although he has not rowed in a race for over forty years, he

has decided to enter a free for all contest, to be pulled on the Saranac.

He does this, because guides have brought him word that “perfessionals”

are to pull. And he thinks it would be an “eternal shame if them city

boasters beat the men born in the woods and on their own waters too.”

Another important character in our story is a young boy, of whom John

Norton always speaks as “the Lad,” a good-hearted, simple-minded boy,

whom the trapper has befriended and who worships the old man. At the

hotel all is expectation. A great crowd has gathered in anticipation

of the morrow’s races, for the guides had brought word that “Old John

Norton was not only coming, but that he was going to enter the race.”

The thought that they were going to see this celebrated man stirred the

people with a feeling of intense curiosity.

In the crowd were several aged men who remembered the fame the trapper

had as an oarsman fifty years ago. And one of their number closed a

heated verbal debate about the merits of the various contestants with,

“I tell you, sir, there ain’t a man on God’s green earth kin beat John

Norton at the oars.” On the other hand the professionals had their

backers—college boys, English tourists, lawyers, clergymen, and bankers.

Thus stood the feeling when a boat, with the Lad at the oar and the

trapper at the paddle, came out from behind an island into plain view

of the hundreds that were watching for it. As the boat came on talking

ceased, and amid a profound silence it drew up within fifty feet of the

landing. Suddenly an old man leaning on a stout stick flourished it in

the air, and exclaimed in a voice that shook with the intensity of his

emotion, “John Norton, he saved my life at the battle of Salt Lakes

forty years ago. Three cheers for John Norton!” Then such a cheer arose

as to burst the stillness into fragments and, thrice repeated, rolled

its roar across the lake and against the distant hills, until their

hollow caverns resounded again, while on the instant a hundred white

handkerchiefs, waved by whiter hands, sprang into sight and filled the

air with their snowy flutterings. For one instant the color came and went

in the face of the surprised trapper. He then arose and stood at his

utmost height. Meanwhile the eyes of the great multitude had time to take

in his splendid proportions, and the grave majesty of his countenance.

He then settled back and the boat moved toward the landing. It was high

noon on the Saranac, and a brighter day was never seen. The lake had not

stirred a ripple, and the air was that cool, fragrant air so good to

breathe in a race. The “free for all” was to be pulled at one o’clock.

The entries were closed the evening before, and stood seven in all: the

three professionals, the brother guides, known as Fred and Charley, the

old trapper and the Lad.

The boats were already in position. The course ran straight down the lake

to a line of seven buoys, so that each boat had its own buoy to turn

around and thence pull back again. The length of the course was just four

miles, a longer race by half than was ever before pulled on those waters.

The boats were by no means the same length and width—the Lad’s was by far

the heaviest.

The number of spectators was a wonder to all; where all the people came

from was a mystery. The long piazza of the hotel, the wharf, even the

roof of the boathouse swarmed with human beings. The shore on either side

was lined with spectators for the distance of half a mile.

“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “ye must remember that a four-mile race

is a good deal of a pull, and the goin’ off ain’t half so decidin’ as

the comin’ in. I don’t conceit that we can afford to fool any time, for

them perfessionals have come here to row, and they look to me as if

they had a good deal of that sort of stuff in them; but it won’t do to

get flustrated at the start, and if ye see fit to follow I’ll set ye a

jegmatical sort of a stroke that will send us out to the buoys yonder

without any rawness in the windpipe or kinks in the legs. But still if

ye don’t think yer a-pullin’ fast enough take yer lick, fur in such a

race as this is likely to be, a man should follow his own notions and act

accordin’ to his gifts.”

“Do you think we will win, old trapper?” asked Fred. “I dunno, boy, I

sartinly dunno, but I don’t like yer oars, especially that left one.

There’s a kink in the shank of it that hadn’t orter be there.”

“Your oars are big enough to hold anyway and I hold you will win.”

“Thank ye, boys, thank ye; yis, I sartinly shall try, for it would be a

mortal shame to have that prize to go out of the woods, an’ if nothin’

gives way I’ll give ’em a touch of the stuff that’s in me, the last mile,

that’ll make ’em get down to work in earnest, but if anything happens I

have great hopes of the Lad there, for his gifts are wonderful at the

oars and—”

“_Ready there_,” came the clear voice of the starter; “ready there for

the word.”

“Aye, aye, ready it is,” replied the trapper. “Now, Lad, if anything

happens to me and you see I can’t win, John Norton will never forgive you

if you don’t pull like a sinner runnin’ from jedgment.”

“Ready there, all of you; _One_, _two_, _three_, GO.”

The oars of the professionals dropped on the water as if their blades

were controlled by one man, and their stroke was so tense and quick that

the light boats fairly jumped ahead. The trapper and the Lad had been

slower to get away and were a full length behind before they got fairly

into motion. The Lad was the last to get started and so careless and

ungainly was his appearance that the crowd, who cheered at the passage of

the others, laughed and groaned at him. For forty rods the race continued

without change in the relative position of the boats.

The oars flashed, dropped and flashed again, as the professionals swept

their oars ahead. Some rods behind the trapper and Fred were rowing side

by side, stroke for stroke, long, steady and strong.

“Yis, yis, I understand; but don’t ye worry, four miles is four miles.

Still if yer a-gittin’ narvous we’ll lengthen out a little jest to show

’em we ain’ more’n half asleep.” So saying the old man set his comrades

so long and sharply pulled a stroke that the two boats doubled their rate

of speed and came up even with the boats ahead. “There now, I guess we’ll

ease up a leetle, for the time to really pull ain’t come yet. I tell you,

boy, that rifle is a-goin’ to stay here in the woods. There’s the Lad

back there can beat us both, but he won’t try ’cause he thinks it would

tickle an old man like me to win the prize. Easy, boy, easy, let ’em git

ahead if they want to, the comin’ in is what decides the race.” Thus the

boats rushed on their way, while the multitude watched with eager eyes

the receding racers. The party of the trapper was in the ascendant, for

the spurt he had made revealed the tremendous power of the man and showed

that old age had not weakened his enormous strength. At last a man who

stood on the edge of the boathouse called out: “They have turned the

buoys; the professionals are ahead.”

“How far behind is John Norton?”

“He and the guides are four rods astern at least.”

“Where is the Lad?”

“Oh, he’s out of the race; he’s fully ten rods behind the trapper and

Fred.” By this time the boats were plainly in view—the contestants were

barely a mile away.