CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: Anna Katharine Green]

INTERNATIONAL SHORT STORIES

EDITED BY

WILLIAM PATTEN

A NEW COLLECTION OF

FAMOUS EXAMPLES

FROM THE LITERATURES

OF ENGLAND, FRANCE

AND AMERICA

AMERICAN

P F COLLIER & SON

NEW YORK

Copyright, 1910

BY P. F. COLLIER & SON

The use of the copyrighted stories in this collection has been

authorized in each case by their authors or by their representatives.

AMERICAN STORIES

THE PROPHETIC PICTURES . . . . . . . . . . . . By Nathaniel Hawthorne

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW . . . . . . . . . . By Washington Irving

THE GOLD-BUG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By Edgar Allan Poe

CORPORAL FLINT'S MURDER . . . . . . . . . . . . By J. Fenimore Cooper

(From "The Oak Openings")

UNCLE JIM AND UNCLE BILLY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By Bret Harte

THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX . . . . . . . . . . . . . By H. W. Longfellow

THE WIDOW'S CRUISE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By F. R. Stockton

THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING QUEST . . . . . . . . . . . . . By O. Henry

MISS TOOKER'S WEDDING GIFT . . . . . . . . . . By John Kendrick Bangs

THE FABLE OF THE TWO MANDOLIN PLAYERS AND

THE WILLING PERFORMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By George Ade

THE FABLE OF THE PREACHER WHO FLEW HIS KITE,

BUT NOT BECAUSE HE WISHED TO DO SO . . . . . . . . . . By George Ade

THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL . . . . . . . . . By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

MAJOR PERDUE'S BARGAIN . . . . . . . . . . . . By Joel Chandler Harris

A KENTUCKY CINDERELLA . . . . . . . . . . . . . By F. Hopkinson Smith

BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE . . . . . . . . . . . By F. Marion Crawford

A MEMORABLE NIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By Anna Katharine Green

THE MAN FROM RED DOG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By Alfred Henry Lewis

JEAN MICHAUD'S LITTLE SHIP . . . . . . . . . By Charles G. D. Roberts

THOSE OLD LUNES! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By W. Gilmore Simms

THE CHIROPODIST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By Bayard Taylor

"MR. DOOLEY ON CORPORAL PUNISHMENT" . . . . . . . . . By F. P. Dunne

OVER A WOOD FIRE . . . . . . . . . . . Donald G. Mitchell--"Ik Marvel"

THE PROPHETIC PICTURES[1]

By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

[1] This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart, related in

Dunlap's "History of the Arts of Design"--a most entertaining book to

the general reader, and a deeply interesting one, we should think, to

the artist.

"But this painter!" cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. "He not only

excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements in all

other learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather, and gives

lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the best

instructed man among us, on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished

gentleman--a citizen of the world--yes, a true cosmopolite; for he will

speak like a native of each clime and country on the globe, except our

own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all this what I most

admire in him."

"Indeed!" said Elinor, who had listened with a woman's interest to the

description of such a man. "Yet this is admirable enough."

"Surely it is," replied her lover, "but far less so than his natural

gift of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch that

all men--and all women too, Elinor--shall find a mirror of themselves

in this wonderful painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be told."

"Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than these," said Elinor,

laughing, "Boston is a perilous abode for the poor gentleman. Are you

telling me of a painter, or a wizard?"

"In truth," answered he, "that question might be asked much more

seriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man's

features, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and

passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like sunshine--or perhaps,

in the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It

is an awful gift," added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of

enthusiasm. "I shall be almost afraid to sit to him."

"Walter, are you in earnest?" exclaimed Elinor.

"For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the look which

you now wear," said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed.

"There: it is passing away now, but when you spoke you seemed

frightened to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?"

"Nothing, nothing," answered Elinor, hastily. "You paint my face with

your own fantasies. Well, come for me to-morrow, and we will visit

this wonderful artist."

But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a

remarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face

of his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance

with what should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of

wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.

"A look!" said Elinor to herself. "No wonder that it startled him, if

it expressed what I sometimes feel. I know, by my own experience, how

frightful a look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought nothing of

it at the time--I have seen nothing of it since--I did but dream it."

And she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff, in which she

meant that her portrait should be taken.

The painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those native

artists who, at a later period than this, borrowed their colors from

the Indians, and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.

Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged his destiny,

he might have chosen to belong to that school without a master, in the

hope of being at least original, since there were no works of art to

imitate, nor rules to follow. But he had been born and educated in

Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeur or beauty of

conception, and every touch of the master-hand, in all the most famous

pictures, in cabinets and galleries, and on the walls of churches, till

there was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn. Art could add

nothing to its lessons, but Nature might. He had therefore visited a

world whither none of his professional brethren had preceded him, to

feast his eyes on visible images that were noble and picturesque, yet

had never been transferred to canvas. America was too poor to afford

other temptations to an artist of eminence, though many of the colonial

gentry, on the painter's arrival, had expressed a wish to transmit

their lineaments to posterity by means of his skill. Whenever such

proposals were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and

seemed to look him through and through. If he beheld only a sleek and

comfortable visage, though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn the

picture, and golden guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task

and the reward. But if the face were the index of anything uncommon,

in thought, sentiment, or experience; or if he met a beggar in the

street, with a white beard and a furrowed brow; or if sometimes a child

happened to look up and smile; he would exhaust all the art on them

that he denied to wealth.

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became an

object of general curiosity. If few or none could appreciate the

technical merit of his productions, yet there were points in regard to

which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined judgment

of the amateur. He watched the effect that each picture produced on

such untutored beholders, and derived profit from their remarks, while

they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as him

who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it must be owned, was

tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed it

an offence against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery of

the Creator, to bring into existence such lively images of His

creatures. Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms at

will, and keep the form of the dead among the living, were inclined to

consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black Man, of

old witch-times, plotting mischief in a new guise. These foolish

fancies were more than half believed among the mob. Even in superior

circles, his character was invested with a vague awe, partly rising

like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly caused

by the varied knowledge and talents which he made subservient to his

profession.

Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eager to

obtain their portraits, as the first of what, they doubtless hoped,

would be a long series of family pictures. The day after the

conversation above recorded, they visited the painter's rooms. A

servant ushered them into an apartment, where, though the artist

himself was not visible, there were personages whom they could hardly

forbear greeting with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole

assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the idea

of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits. Several of the

portraits were known to them, either as distinguished characters of the

day, or their private acquaintances. There was Governor Burnet,

looking as if he had just received an undutiful communication from the

House of Representatives, and were inditing a most sharp response. Mr.

Cooke hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and somewhat

puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The ancient lady of Sir

William Phips eyed them from the wall, in ruff and farthingale, an

imperious old dame, not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow, then

a very young man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise which long

afterward made him a distinguished general. Their personal friends

were recognized at a glance. In most of the pictures, the whole mind

and character were brought out on the countenance, and concentrated

into a single look, so that, to speak paradoxically, the originals

hardly resembled themselves so strikingly as the portraits did.

Among these modern worthies, there were two old bearded Saints, who had

almost vanished into the darkening canvas. There was also a pale but

unfaded Madonna, who had perhaps been worshiped in Rome, and now

regarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that they longed to

worship too.

"How singular a thought," observed Walter Ludlow, "that this beautiful

face has been beautiful for above two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty

would endure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?"

"If earth were heaven, I might," she replied. "But where all things

fade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!"

"This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint though he

be," continued Walter. "He troubles me. But the virgin looks kindly

at us."

"Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks," said Elinor. The easel stood

beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that had been recently

commenced. After a little inspection, they began to recognize the

features of their own minister; the Rev. Dr. Colman, growing into shape

and life as it were, out of a cloud.

"Kind old man!" exclaimed Elinor. "He gazes at me as if he were about

to utter a word of paternal advice."

"And at me," said Walter, "as if he were about to shake his head and

rebuke me for some suspected iniquity. But so does the original. I

shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye, till we stand before

him to be married."

They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning, beheld the

painter, who had been some moments in the room, and had listened to a

few of their remarks. He was a middle-aged man, with a countenance

well worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque though

careless arrangement of his rich dress, and, perhaps, because his soul

dwelt always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait

himself. His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artist

and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from the

canvas to salute them.

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained the

object of their visit. While he spoke, a sun-beam was falling athwart

his figure and Elinor's, with so happy an effect that they also seemed

living pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by bright fortune. The

artist was evidently struck.

"My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay in Boston

must be brief," said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observant glance,

he added, "but your wishes shall be gratified, though I disappoint the

Chief-Justice and Madam Oliver. I must not lose this opportunity, for

the sake of painting a few ells of broadcloth and brocade."

The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraits into

one picture, and represent them engaged in some appropriate action.

This plan would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily

rejected, because so large a space of canvas would have been unfit for

the room which it was intended to decorate. Two half-length portraits

were therefore fixed upon. After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow

asked Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence over

their fates the painter was about to acquire.

"The old women of Boston affirm," continued he, "that after he has once

got possession of a person's face and figure, he may paint him in any

act or situation whatever--and the picture will be prophetic. Do you

believe it?"

"Not quite," said Elinor, smiling. "Yet if he has such magic, there is

something so gentle in his manner that I am sure he will use it well."

It was the painter's choice to proceed with both the portraits at the

same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he

sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other.

Accordingly, he gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, and the

features of one and the other began to start forth so vividly that it

appeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengage them from

the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade they beheld their

phantom selves. But, though the likeness promised to be perfect, they

were not quite satisfied with the expression; it seemed more vague than

in most of the painter's works. He, however, was satisfied with the

prospect of success, and being much interested in the lovers, employed

his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch of

their two figures. During their sittings, he engaged them in

conversation, and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits,

which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to combine and

fix. At length he announced that at their next visit both the

portraits would be ready for delivery.

"If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in the few last

touches which I meditate," observed he, "these two pictures will be my

very best performances. Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects."

While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, nor

withdrew it till they had reached the bottom of the stairs.

Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes stronger hold of

the imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted. Yet why

should it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of the

andirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,

continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, of ourselves,

which we glance at, and straightway forget them. But we forget them

only because they vanish. It is the idea of duration--of earthly

immortality--that gives such a mysterious interest to our own

portraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and

hastened to the painter's room, punctually at the appointed hour, to

meet those pictured shapes which were to be their representatives with

posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but

left it somewhat gloomy, as they closed the door.

Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, which rested

against the furthest wall of the room. At the first glance, through

the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their

natural attitudes, and with all the air that they recognized so well,

they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight.

"There we stand," cried Walter, enthusiastically, "fixed in sunshine

forever! No dark passions can gather on our faces!"

"No," said Elinor, more calmly; "no dreary change can sadden us."

This was said while they were approaching, and had yet gained only an

imperfect view of the pictures. The painter, after saluting them,

busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his

visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors. At

intervals, he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watching

their countenances in profile, with his pencil suspended over the

sketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other's

picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but without

uttering a word. At length Walter stepped forward--then back--viewing

Elinor's portrait in various lights, and finally spoke.

"Is there not a change?" said he, in a doubtful and meditative tone.

"Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid, the longer I look. It is

certainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress--the

features--all are the same; and yet something is altered."

"Is, then, the picture less like than it was yesterday?" inquired the

painter, now drawing near, with irrepressible interest.

"The features are perfect, Elinor," answered Walter, "and, at the first

glance, the expression seemed also hers. But, I could fancy that the

portrait has changed countenance while I have been looking at it. The

eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression.

Nay, it is grief and terror! Is this like Elinor?"

"Compare the living face with the pictured one," said the painter.

Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress and started. Motionless and

absorbed--fascinated as it were--in contemplation of Walter's portrait,

Elinor's face had assumed precisely the expression of which he had just

been complaining. Had she practiced for whole hours before a mirror,

she could not have caught the look so successfully. Had the picture

itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back her present aspect,

with stronger and more melancholy truth. She appeared quite

unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover.

"Elinor," exclaimed Walter, in amazement, "what change has come over

you?"

She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed gaze, till he seized

her hand, and thus attracted her notice; then, with a sudden tremor,

she looked from the picture to the face of the original. "Do you see

no change in your portrait?" asked she.

"In mine?--None!" replied Walter, examining it. "But let me see! Yes;

there is a slight change--an improvement, I think, in the picture,

though none in the likeness. It has a livelier expression than

yesterday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the eyes, and

about to be uttered from the lips. Now that I have caught the look, it

becomes very decided."

While he was intent on these observations, Elinor turned to the

painter. She regarded him with grief and awe, and felt that he repaid

her with sympathy and commiseration, though wherefore she could but

vaguely guess.

"That look!" whispered she, and shuddered. "How came it there?"

"Madam," said the painter, sadly, taking her hand, and leading her

apart, "in both these pictures I have painted what I saw. The

artist--the true artist--must look beneath the exterior. It is his

gift--his proudest but often a melancholy one--to see the inmost soul,

and by a power indefinable even to himself to make it glow or darken

upon the canvas, in glances that express the thought and sentiment of

years. Would that I might convince myself of error in the present

instance!"

They had now approached the table, on which were heads in chalk, hands

almost as expressive as ordinary faces, ivied church towers, thatched

cottages, old thunder-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume, and

all such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle moments. Turning

them over, with seeming carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures

was disclosed.

"If I have failed," continued he, "if your heart does not see itself

reflected in your own portrait, if you have no secret cause to trust my

delineation of the other, it is not yet too late to alter them. I

might change the action of these figures too. But would it influence

the event?"

He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran through Elinor's

frame; a shriek was upon her lips; but she stifled it, with the

self-command that becomes habitual to all who hide thoughts of fear and

anguish within their bosoms. Turning from the table, she perceived

that Walter had advanced near enough to have seen the sketch, though

she could not determine whether it had caught his eye.

"We will not have the pictures altered," said she hastily. "If mine is

sad, I shall but look the gayer for the contrast."

"Be it so," answered the painter, bowing. "May your griefs be such

fanciful ones that only your picture may mourn for them! For your

joys--may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely

face till it quite belie my art!"

After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pictures formed the two

most splendid ornaments of their abode. They hung side by side,

separated by a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly,

yet always returning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled gentlemen,

who professed a knowledge of such subjects, reckoned these among the

most admirable specimens of modern portraiture; while common observers

compared them with the originals, feature by feature, and were

rapturous in praise of the likeness. But it was on a third

class--neither travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but people

of natural sensibility--that the pictures wrought their strongest

effect. Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming

interested, would return day after day, and study these painted faces

like the pages of a mystic volume. Walter Ludlow's portrait attracted

their earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his bride, they

sometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intended

to throw upon the features; all agreeing that there was a look of

earnest import, though no two explained it alike. There was less

diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor's picture. They differed,

indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloom

that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from

the natural temperament of their youthful friend. A certain fanciful

person announced, as the result of much scrutiny, that both these

pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholy strength of

feeling, in Elinor's countenance, bore reference to the more vivid

emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, in that of Walter.

Though unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch, in which the

action of the two figures was to correspond with their mutual

expression.

It was whispered among friends, that, day by day, Elinor's face was

assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness, which threatened soon to render

her too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on the

other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter had

given him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outward

flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within. In course

of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple silk, wrought with

flowers, and fringed with heavy golden tassels, before the pictures,

under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues, or the light dim

them. It was enough. Her visitors felt that the massive folds of the

silk must never be withdrawn, nor the portraits mentioned in her

presence.

Time wore on; and the painter came again. He had been far enough to

the north to see the silver cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look

over the vast round of cloud and forest, from the summit of New

England's loftiest mountain. But he did not profane that scene by the

mockery of his art. He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake

George, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till

not a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recollection. He

had gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, and there, again, had

flung his hopeless pencil down the precipice, feeling that he could as

soon paint the roar as aught else that goes to make up the wondrous

cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural scenery,

except as a framework for the delineations of the human form and face,

instinct with thought, passion, or suffering. With store of such, his

adventurous ramble had enriched him; the stern dignity of Indian

chiefs; the dusky loveliness of Indian girls; the domestic life of

wigwams; the stealthy march; the battle beneath gloomy pine trees; the

frontier fortress with its garrison; the anomaly of the old French

partisan, bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy deserts; such were

the scenes and portraits that he had sketched. The glow of perilous

moments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce power--love,

hate, grief, frenzy--in a word, all the worn-out heart of the old earth

had been revealed to him under a new form. His portfolio was filled

with graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory, which genius

would transmute into its own substance, and imbue with immortality. He

felt that the deep wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was

found.

But, amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest, or its

overwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, the

companions of his way. Like all other men around whom an engrossing

purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of human kind.

He had no aim--no pleasure--no sympathies--but what were ultimately

connected with his art. Though gentle in manner, and upright in intent

and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart was cold; no

living creature could be brought near enough to keep him warm. For

these two beings, however, he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the

sort of interest which always allied him to the subjects of his pencil.

He had pried into their souls with his keenest insight, and pictured

the result upon their features with his utmost skill, so as barely to

fall short of that standard which no genius ever reached, his own

severe conception. He had caught from the duskiness of the future--at

least, so he fancied--a fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it

on the portraits. So much of himself--of his imagination and all other

powers--had been lavished on the study of Walter and Elinor, that he

almost regarded them as creations of his own, like the thousands with

which he had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did they flit

through the twilight of the woods, hover on the mist of waterfalls,

look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away in the noontide

sun. They haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life, nor

pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits, each with the

unalterable expression which his magic had evoked from the caverns of

the soul. He could not recross the Atlantic, till he had again beheld

the originals of those airy pictures.

"Oh, glorious Art!" thus mused the enthusiastic painter, as he trod the

street. "Thou art the image of the Creator's own. The innumerable

forms that wander in nothingness start into being at thy beck. The

dead live again. Thou recallest them to their old scenes, and givest

their gray shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly and

immortal. Thou snatchest back the fleeting moments of History. With

thee, there is no Past; for, at thy touch, all that is great becomes

forever present; and illustrious men live through long ages, in the

visible performance of the very deeds which made them what they are.

Oh, potent Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past to stand in

that narrow strip of sunlight which we call Now, canst thou summon the

shrouded Future to meet her there? Have I not achieved it! Am I not

thy Prophet?"

Thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor did he almost cry aloud, as he

passed through the toilsome street, among people that knew not of his

reveries, nor could understand nor care for them. It is not good for

man to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless there be those around him

by whose example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and

hopes will become extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps the

reality, of a madman. Reading other bosoms, with an acuteness almost

preternatural, the painter failed to see the disorder of his own.

"And this should be the house," said he, looking up and down the front,

before he knocked. "Heaven help my brains! That picture! Methinks it

will never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the door, there it

is framed within them, painted strongly, and glowing in the richest

tints--the faces of the portraits--the figures and action of the

sketch!"

He knocked.

"The portraits! Are they within?" inquired he, of the domestic; then

recollecting himself--"your master and mistress! Are they at home?"

"They are, sir," said the servant, adding, as he noticed that

picturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest himself,

"and the Portraits too!"

The guest was admitted into a parlor, communicating by a central door

with an interior room of the same size. As the first apartment was

empty, he passed to the entrance of the second, within which his eyes

were greeted by those living personages, as well as their pictured

representatives, who had long been the object of so singular an

interest. He involuntarily paused on the threshold.

They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinor were standing

before the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich

and voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel

with one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride. The

pictures, concealed for months, gleamed forth again in undiminished

splendor, appearing to throw a sombre light across the room rather than

to be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor had been almost

prophetic. A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, had successively

dwelt upon her countenance, deepening, with the lapse of time, into a

quiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made it the very

expression of the portrait. Walter's face was moody and dull, or

animated only by fitful flashes, which left a heavier darkness for

their momentary illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait,

and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which he finally stood

absorbed.

The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approaching behind him,

on its progress toward its victims. A strange thought darted into his

mind. Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had embodied

itself, and he a chief agent of the coming evil which he had

foreshadowed?

Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing with it, as

with his own heart, and abandoning himself to the spell of evil

influence that the painter had cast upon the features. Gradually his

eyes kindled; while, as Elinor watched the increasing wildness of his

face, her own assumed a look of terror; and when at last he turned upon

her, the resemblance of both to their portraits was complete.

"Our fate is upon us!" howled Walter. "Die!"

Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sinking to the ground,

and aimed it at her bosom. In the action and in the look and attitude

of each, the painter beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture,

with all its tremendous coloring was finished.

"Hold, madman!" cried he, sternly.

He had advanced from the door, and interposed himself between the

wretched beings, with the same sense of power to regulate their destiny

as to alter a scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician,

controlling the phantoms which he had evoked.

"What!" muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed from fierce excitement

into silent gloom. "Does Fate impede its own decree?"

"Wretched lady!" said the painter. "Did I not warn you?"

"You did," replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to the

quiet grief which it had disturbed. "But--I loved him!"

Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the result of one, or all

our deeds, be shadowed forth and set before us--some would call it Fate

and hurry onward, others be swept along by their passionate

desires--and none be turned aside by the PROPHETIC PICTURES.

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

By WASHINGTON IRVING

(FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER)

"A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flushing round a summer sky."

--_Castle of Indolence_

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern

shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated

by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappaan Zee, and where they always

prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas

when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which

by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly

known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given it, we are told,

in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from

the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village

tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact,

but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic.

Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there is a little

valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the

quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it,

with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional

whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only

sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in

squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one

side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all

nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by roar of my own gun, as

it broke the sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and

reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat

whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream

quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more

promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar character of its

inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this

sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and

its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the

neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the

land and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was

bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the

settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of

his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by

Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under

the sway of some witching power that holds a spell over the minds of

the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are

given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and

visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices

in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted

spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare

oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and

the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite

scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region and

seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the

apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some

to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away

by a cannon-ball in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war,

and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in

the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not

confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and

especially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance.

Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who

have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts

concerning this specter, allege that, the body of the trooper having

been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of

battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with

which he sometimes passes along the hollow like a midnight blast, is

owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the

churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has

furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows,

and the specter is known at all the country firesides by the name of

The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not

confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously

imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake

they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are

sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air,

and begin to grow imaginative--to dream dreams and see apparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is in such

little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the

great State of New York, that population, manners and customs remain

fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is

making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country,

sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still

water which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and

bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic

harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many

years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet

I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same

families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American

history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the

name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it,

"tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the

children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State

which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the

forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and

country schoolmasters.

The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall,

but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands

that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for

shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was

small and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a

long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his

spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding

along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging

and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of

famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a

cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely

constructed of logs, the windows partly glazed and partly patched with

leaves of copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours

by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against

the window-shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect

case, he would find some embarrassment in getting out--an idea most

probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery

of an ellpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant

situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close

by and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence

the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might

be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive;

interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master in

the tone of menace or command; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound

of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of

knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in

mind the golden maxim, "spare the rod and spoil the child."--Ichabod

Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel

potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the

contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than

severity, taking the burden off the backs of the weak and laying it on

those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the

least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the

claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some

little, tough, wrong headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and

swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he

called "doing his duty by their parents"; and he never inflicted a

chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to

the smarting urchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it

the longest day he had to live."

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of

the larger boys; and on holyday afternoons would convoy some of the

smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good

housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard.

Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The

revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely

sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder,

and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help

out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those

parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children

he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus

going the rounds of the neighborhood with all his worldly effects tied

up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic

patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous

burden and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of

rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers

occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay;

mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove the cows from

pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the

dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his

little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and

ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting

the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which

whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on

one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the

neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the

young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on

Sundays to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band

of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away

the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above

all the rest of the congregation, and there are peculiar quavers still

to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile

off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday

morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of

Ichabod Crane. Thus by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way

which is commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy

pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who

understood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have a wonderfully

easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female

circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle

gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments

to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to

the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little

stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse and the addition of a

supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade

of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly

happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure

among them in the churchyard, between, services on Sundays! gathering

grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees;

reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones, or

sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent

mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly

back, envying his superior elegance and address.

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling gazette,

carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that

his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover,

esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read

several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton

Mather's "History of New England Witchcraft," in which, by the way, he

most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple

credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of digesting

it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his

residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or

monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after

his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the

rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered by his

schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the

gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his

eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful

woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every

sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited

imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will[1] from the hill-side; the

boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary

hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of

birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled

most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one

of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance,

a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against

him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that

he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such

occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to

sing psalm tunes; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by

their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his

nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the

distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter

evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire,

with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth, and

listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted

fields and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges and haunted houses, and

particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the

Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by

his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous

sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of

Connecticut; and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon

comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world

did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the

chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the

crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no specter dared to show its

face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk

homeward. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amid the dim

and ghastly glare of a snowy night!--With what wistful look did he eye

every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from

some distant window!--How often was he appalled by some shrub covered

with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his very path!--How

often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on

the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder,

lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind

him!--and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing

blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the galloping

Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the

mind, that walk in darkness: and though he had seen many specters in

his time, and had been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes

in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these

evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of

the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a

being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins,

and the whole race of witches put together; and that was--a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to

receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the

daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a

blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge, ripe and melting

and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed,

not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a

little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which

was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off

her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which her

great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting

stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat,

to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; and it is

not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his

eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion.

Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented,

liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or

his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within these,

everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied

with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the

hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His

stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those

green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond

of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it, at

the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest

water, in a little well formed of a barrel, and then stole sparkling

away through the grass, to a neighboring brook that babbled along among

alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn that

might have served for a church, every window and crevice of which

seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was

busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins

skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one

eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under

their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and

cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the

roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and

abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then,

troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of

snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of

ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and

guinea-fowls fretting about it like ill-tempered housewives, with their

peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant

cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine gentleman,

clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of

his heart--sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then

generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to

enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise

of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to

himself every roasting pig running about, with a pudding in its belly

and an apple in its mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a

comfortable pie and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were

swimming in their own gravy, and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes,

like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In

the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon and juicy

relishing ham; not a turkey, but he beheld daintily trussed up, with

its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory

sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his

back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter

which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great

green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye,

of buckwheat and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy

fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart

yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his

imagination expanded with the idea how they might be readily turned

into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land and

shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already

realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a

whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with

household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he

beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels,

setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee--or the Lord knows where!

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It

was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged, but

lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first

Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the

front capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung

flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in

the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer

use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end and a churn at the other

showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted.

From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed

the center of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here,

rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes.

In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a

quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn and

strings of dried apples and peaches hung in gay festoons along the

walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave

him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, and dark

mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying

shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops;

mock-oranges and conch shells decorated the mantel-piece; strings of

various colored birds' eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich

egg was hung from the center of the room, and a corner cupboard,

knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and

well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight,

the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain

the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this

enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell

to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but

giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered

adversaries, to contend with; and had to make his way merely through

gates of iron and brass and walls of adamant to the castle-keep, where

the lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as

a man would carve his way to the center of a Christmas pie, and then

the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the

contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset

with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting

new difficulties and impediments, and he had to encounter a host of

fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic

admirers who beset every portal to her heart; keeping a watchful and

angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause

against any new competitor.

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roistering

blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation,

Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rung with his

feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and

double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not

unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance.

From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the

nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. He was

famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous

on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and

cock-fights, and with the ascendency which bodily strength always

acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his

hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that

admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a

fight or a frolic; had more mischief than ill-will in his composition;

and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of

waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions of

his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom

he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for

miles round. In cold weather, he was distinguished by a fur cap,

surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at a country

gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about

among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall.

Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at

midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the

old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till

the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes

Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture

of awe, admiration, and good-will; and when any madcap prank or rustic

brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted

Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina

for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous

toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a

bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his

hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates

to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours;

insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on

a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is

termed, "sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair and

carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend,

and considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk

from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had,

however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature;

he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack--yielding, but tough;

though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the

slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away--jerk!--he was as erect

and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been

madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more

than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his

advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his

character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse;

not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference

of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers.

Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter

better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable man, and an excellent

father, let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife,

too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage the

poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish

things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of

themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or

plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would

sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of

a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most

valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the

meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side

of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight,

that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they

have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have

but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a

thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It

is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater

proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man

must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He that wins a

thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to some renown; but he

who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a

hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom

Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the

interests of the former evidently declined: his horse was no longer

seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually

arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have

carried matters to open warfare, and settled their pretensions to the

lady according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners,

the knights-errant of yore--by single combat; but Ichabod was too

conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists

against him; he had overheard the boast of Bones, that he would "double

the schoolmaster up, and put him on a shelf"; and he was too wary to

give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in

this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to

draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play

off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object

of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They

harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing-school,

by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in

spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and

turned everything topsy-turvy; so that the poor schoolmaster began to

think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But

what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning

him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog

whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as

a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in psalmody.

In this way, matters went on for some time, without producing any

material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers.

On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned

on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of

his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that

scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails,

behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk

before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited

weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as

half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions

of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some

appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all

busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with

one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned

throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the

appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, a round crowned

fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of

a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way

of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation

to Ichabod to attend a merry-making, or "quilting frolic," to be held

that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and having delivered his message

with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro

is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the

brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the

importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The

scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at

trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and

those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear,

to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were

flung aside, without being put away on the shelves; inkstands were

overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose

an hour before the usual time; bursting forth like a legion of young

imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early

emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half-hour at his

toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of

rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass

that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance

before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a

horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old

Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted,

issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is

meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account

of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he

bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse that had outlived almost

everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe

neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and

knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and

spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still

he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his

name, which was Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of

his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had

infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for,

old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil

in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short

stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the

saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his

whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter, and as the horse

jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair

of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his

scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black

coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance

of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van

Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met

with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and

serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always

associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their

sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been

nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and

scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance

high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the

groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail

at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness

of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to

bush and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety

around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of

stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note, and the twittering

blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker,

with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget and splendid plumage;

and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail,

and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy

coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming

and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pretending to be

on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every

symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures

of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, some

hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered into baskets

and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the

cider-press. Further on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with

its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts and holding out the

promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying

beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and

giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he

passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the

beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind

of dainty slap-jacks, well-buttered, and garnished with honey or

treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugared

suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which

look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The

sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide

bosom of the Tappaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here

and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of

the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a

breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint,

changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep

blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of

the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater

depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was

loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail

hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky

gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended

in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer

Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the

adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in

homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and

magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in

close crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with

scissors and pin-cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the

outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers,

excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock,

gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons, in short square-skirted

coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally

queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an

eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a

potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the

gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself,

full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage.

He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all

kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for

he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon

the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van

Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their

luxurious display of red and white, but the ample charms of a genuine

Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such

heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds,

known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty

doughnut, the tender oly-koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller;

sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the

whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies,

and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover

delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and

quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together

with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty

much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its

clouds of vapor from the midst--Heaven bless the mark! I want breath

and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to

get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a

hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion

as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with

eating, as some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling

his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility

that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable

luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back

upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van

Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant

pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated

with content and good-humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His

hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a

shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing

invitation to "fall to and help themselves."

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned

to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been

the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a

century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The

greater part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings,

accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head;

bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a

fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal

powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle; and to have seen

his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room,

you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the

dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all

the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm

and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at

every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their

white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear.

How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and

joyous?--the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and

smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom

Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself

in one corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the

sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the

piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawling out long stories

about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those

highly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The

British and American line had run near it during the war; it had,

therefore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with refugees,

cowboys, and all kind of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had

elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little

becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to

make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman,

who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder

from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge.

And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a

mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains,

being an excellent master of defense, parried a musket-ball with a

small-sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade

and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time

to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several

more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was

persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a

happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that

succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the

kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered

long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting

throng that forms the population of most of our country places.

Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages,

for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn

themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have

traveled away from the neighborhood: so that when they turn out at

night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call

upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts

except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories

in these parts was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow.

There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted

region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting

all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van

Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful

legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and

mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where

the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the

neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that

haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on

winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The

chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite specter of

Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times

of late, patrolling the country, and, it is said, tethered his horse

nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a

favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded

by locust trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent,

whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming

through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a

silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which peeps may

be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its

grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one

would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one

side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large

brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black

part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a

wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were

thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even

in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was

one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman, and the place

where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old

Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the

horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged

to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill

and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the horseman suddenly

turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang

away over the treetops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous adventure of

Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant

jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one night from the neighboring

village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper;

that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should

have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but

just as they came to the church bridge the Hessian bolted, and vanished

in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in

the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving

a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sunk deep in the mind of

Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his

invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvelous events that

had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights

which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together

their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling

along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the

damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their

light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed

along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they

gradually died away--and the late scene of noise and frolic was all

silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the

custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully

convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at

this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know.

Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly

sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate

and chapfallen.--Oh, these women! these women! Could that girl have

been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?--Was her encouragement

of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his

rival?--Heaven only knows, not I!--Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole

forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than

a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice

the scene of rural wealth on which he had so often gloated, he went

straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused

his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he

was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole

valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and

crestfallen, pursued his travel homeward, along the sides of the lofty

hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so

cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far

below him the Tappaan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of

waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at

anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight he could even hear

the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but

it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from

this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn

crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off,

from some farmhouse away among the hills--but it was like a dreaming

sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally

the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a

bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and

turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the

afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew

darker and darker, the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and

driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt

so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place

where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the

center of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like a

giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind

of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to

form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and

rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of

the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was

universally known by the name of Major André's tree. The common people

regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of

sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the

tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he began to whistle; he thought

his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through

the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw

something white hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused, and ceased

whistling; but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place

where the tree had been scathed by lightning and the white wood laid

bare. Suddenly he heard a groan--his teeth chattered, and his knees

smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon

another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree

in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road,

and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen known by the name of

Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a

bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook

entered the wood a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild

grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was

the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate

André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines

were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever

since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of

a schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; he summoned up,

however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in

the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead

of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement,

and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased

with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily

with the contrary foot. It was all in vain; his steed started, it is

true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a

thicket of brambles and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed

both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who

dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the

bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over

his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge

caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove,

on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black

and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom,

like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror.

What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides,

what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was,

which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore,

a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents--"Who are you?"

He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated

voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of

the inflexible Gunpowder, and shutting his eyes, broke forth with

involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of

alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at

once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal,

yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained.

He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a

black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or

sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on

the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and

waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and

bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the galloping

Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The

stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod

pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind--the other did

the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume

his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth,

and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and

dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and

appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising

ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief

against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod

was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless! but his horror

was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have

rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his

saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks

and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his

companion the slip--but the specter started full jump with him. Away,

then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks

flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the

air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, in

the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but

Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it,

made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This

road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter

of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just

beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an

apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got half-way

through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it

slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to

hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by

clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the

earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a

moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his

mind--for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty

fears: the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskillful rider that

he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on

one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge

of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would

cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church

bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the

bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls

of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the

place where Brom Bones's ghostly competitor had disappeared. "If I can

but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he

heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even

fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the

ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung upon the bridge; he thundered over the

resounding planks; he gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a

look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in

a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in

his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod

endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered

his cranium with a tremendous crash--he was tumbled headlong into the

dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by

like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with

the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's

gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast--dinner-hour

came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and

strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans

Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor

Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after

diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the

road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt;

the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at

furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of

a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was

found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a

shattered pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be

discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the

bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two

shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted

stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book

of psalm tunes full of dog's ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the

books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community,

excepting Cotton Mather's "History of Witchcraft," a New England

Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a

sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted, by several fruitless

attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van

Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith

consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time

forward, determined to send his children no more to school; observing

that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing.

Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his

quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his

person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the

following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the

churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin

had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget

of others, were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered

them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they

shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been

carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in

nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school

was removed to a different quarter of the Hollow, and another pedagogue

reigned in his stead.

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit

several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly

adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod

Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through

fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at

having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his

quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied

law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician;

electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a

Justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, who, shortly after his

rival's disappearance, conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the

altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of

Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the

mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more

about the matter than he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these

matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by

supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the

neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more

than ever an object of superstitious awe; and that may be the reason

why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the

church by the border of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse being deserted,

soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the

unfortunate pedagogue; and the plow-boy, loitering homeward of a still

summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a

melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I

heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of the

Manhattoes,[2] at which were present many of its sagest and most

illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly

old fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and

one whom I strongly suspected of being poor--he made such efforts to be

entertaining. When his story was concluded there was much laughter and

approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had

been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one

tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained

a grave and rather severe face throughout; now and then folding his

arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if

turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who

never laugh but upon good grounds--when they have reason and the law on

their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided,

and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair,

and sticking the other a-kimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly

sage motion of the head and contraction of the brow, what was the moral

of the story, and what it went to prove.

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as

a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his

inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and lowering the glass

slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most

logically to prove:

"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and

pleasures--provided we will but take a joke as we find it;

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to

have rough riding of it;

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch

heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the State."

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this

explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the

syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with

something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this

was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the

extravagant--there were one or two points on which he had his doubts:

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't

believe one-half of it myself."

D. K.

[1] The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It

receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those

words.

[2] New York.

THE GOLD-BUG

By EDGAR ALLAN POE

What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!

He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.

--_All in the Wrong_

Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand.

He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a

series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the

mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the

city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan's

Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.

This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than

the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point

exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the mainland by a

scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of

reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. The vegetation,

as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of any

magnitude are to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort

Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings,

tenanted, during the summer, by the fugitives from Charleston dust and

fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole

island, with the exception of this western point, and a line of hard,

white beach on the seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the

sweet myrtle so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The

shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and

forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burdening the air with its

fragrance.

In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern or

more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut,

which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his

acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship--for there was much in

the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him well educated,

with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject

to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with

him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief amusements were

gunning and fishing, or sauntering along the beach and through the

myrtles, in quest of shells or entomological specimens--his collection

of the latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these

excursions he was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter,

who had been manumitted before the reverses of the family, but who

could be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what

he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his young

"Massa Will." It is not improbable that the relatives of Legrand,

conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect, had contrived to

instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and

guardianship of the wanderer.

The winters in the latitude of Sullivan's Island are seldom very

severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed when a

fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October, 18--, there

occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset

I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend, whom

I had not visited for several weeks--my residence being, at that time,

in Charleston, a distance of nine miles from the island, while the

facilities of passage and re-passage were very far behind those of the

present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and

getting no reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted,

unlocked the door, and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the

hearth. It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw

off an overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling logs, and awaited

patiently the arrival of my hosts.

Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.

Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some

marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits--how else shall

I term them?--of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve, forming

a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted down and secured, with

Jupiter's assistance, a _scarabaeus_ which he believed to be totally

new, but in respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the morrow.

"And why not to-night?" I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze, and

wishing the whole tribe of _scarabaei_ at the devil.

"Ah, if I had only known you were here!" said Legrand, "but it's so

long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would pay me a

visit this very night, of all others? As I was coming home I met

Lieutenant G----, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent him the

bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the morning.

Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is

the loveliest thing in creation!"

"What?--sunrise?"

"Nonsense! no!--the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color--about the

size of a large hickory-nut--with two jet-black spots near one

extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The

_antennae_ are--"

"Dey ain't no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin' on you," here

interrupted Jupiter; "de bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him,

inside and all, sep him wing--neber feel half so hebby a bug in my

life."

"Well, suppose it is, Jup," replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly,

it seemed to me, than the case demanded; "is that any reason for your

letting the birds burn? The color--" here he turned to me--"is really

almost enough to warrant Jupiter's idea. You never saw a more

brilliant metallic lustre than the scales emit--but of this you cannot

judge till to-morrow. In the meantime I can give you some idea of the

shape." Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were

a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found

none.

"Never mind," he said at length, "this will answer;" and he drew from

his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap,

and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I

retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design

was complete, he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a

loud growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter

opened it, and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in,

leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown

him much attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over,

I looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a

little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.

"Well!" I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, "this _is_ a

strange _scarabaeus_, I must confess; new to me; never saw anything

like it before--unless it was a skull, or a death's-head, which it more

nearly resembles than anything else that has come under _my_

observation."

"A death's-head!" echoed Legrand. "Oh--yes well, it has something of

that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look

like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth--and then

the shape of the whole is oval."

"Perhaps so," said I; "but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must

wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its

personal appearance."

"Well, I don't know," said he, a little nettled, "I draw

tolerably--_should_ do it at least--have had good masters, and flatter

myself that I am not quite a blockhead."

"But, my dear fellow, you are joking, then," said I; "this is a very

passable _skull_--indeed, I may say that it is a very _excellent_

skull, according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of

physiology--and your _scarabaeus_ must be the queerest _scarabaeus_ in

the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling bit

of superstition upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug

_scarabaeus caput hominis_, or something of that kind--there are many

similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the _antennae_

you spoke of?"

"The _antennae_!" said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably

warm upon the subject; "I am sure you must see the _antennae_. I made

them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that

is sufficient."

"Well, well," I said, "perhaps you have--still I don't see them;" and I

handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle

his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his

ill humor puzzled me--and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there were

positively _no antennae_ visible, and the whole did bear a very close

resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death's-head.

He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it,

apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design

seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant his face grew

violently red--in another excessively pale. For some minutes he

continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At length

he arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself

upon a sea-chest in the furthest corner of the room. Here again he

made an anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all directions.

He said nothing, however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I

thought it prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his

temper by any comment. Presently he took from his coat-pocket a

wallet, placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a

writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew more composed in his

demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite disappeared.

Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As the evening wore

away he became more and more absorbed in revery, from which no sallies

of mine could arouse him. It had been my intention to pass the night

at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in

this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to

remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his

usual cordiality.

It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen

nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his

man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited,

and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend.

"Well, Jup," said I, "what is the matter now?--how is your master?"

"Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be."

"Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?"

"Dar! dat's it!--him neber 'plain of notin'--but him berry sick for all

dat."

"_Very_ sick, Jupiter!--why didn't you say so at once? Is he confined

to bed?"

"No, dat he aint--he aint 'fin'd nowhar--dat's just whar de shoe

pinch--my mind is got to be berry hebby 'bout poor Massa Will."

"Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about.

You say your master is sick. Hasn't he told you what ails him?"

"Why, massa, 'taint worf while for to git mad about de matter--Massa

Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him--but den what make him go

about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as

white as a goose? And den he keep a syphon all de time--"

"Keeps a what, Jupiter?"

"Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate--de queerest figgurs I ebber

did see. Ise gittin' to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep

mighty tight eye 'pon him 'noovers. Todder day he gib me slip 'fore de

sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick

ready cut for to gib him deuced good beating when he did come--but Ise

sich a fool dat I hadn't de heart arter all--he looked so berry poorly."

"Eh?--what?--ah yes!--upon the whole I think you had better not be too

severe with the poor fellow--don't flog him, Jupiter--he can't very

well stand it--but can you form no idea of what has occasioned this

illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant

happened since I saw you?"

"No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den--'twas _'fore_

den I'm feared--'twas de berry day you was dare."

"How? what do you mean?"

"Why, massa, I mean de bug--dare now."

"The what?"

"De bug--I'm berry sartin dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere 'bout de

head by dat goole-bug."

"And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?"

"Claws enuff, massa, and mouff, too. I nebber did see sich a deuced

bug--he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will

cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go 'gin mighty quick, I tell

you--den was de time he must ha' got de bite. I didn't like de look ob

de bug mouff, myself, nohow, so I wouldn't take hold ob him wid my

finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up

in de paper and stuff a piece of it in he mouff--dat was de way."

"And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle,

and that the bite made him sick?"

"I don't think noffin about it--I nose it. What make him dream 'bout

de goole so much, if 'taint cause he bit by the goole-bug? Ise heered

'bout dem goole-bugs 'fore dis."

"But how do you know he dreams about gold?"

"How I know? why, 'cause he talk about it in he sleep--dat's how I

nose."

"Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate circumstance

am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you to-day?"

"What de matter, massa?"

"Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?"

"No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;" and here Jupiter handed me a note

which ran thus:

"My Dear--: Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope you

have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little brusquerie of

mine; but no, that is improbable.

"Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something

to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should tell

it at all.

"I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup annoys

me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions. Would you

believe it?--he had prepared a huge stick, the other day, with which to

chastise me for giving him the slip, and spending the day, solus, among

the hills on the main land. I verily believe that my ill looks alone

saved me a flogging.

"I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.

"If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with Jupiter.

Do come. I wish to see you to-night, upon business of importance. I

assure you that it is of the highest importance.

"Ever yours,

"William Legrand."

There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great

uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of Legrand.

What could he be dreaming of? What new crotchet possessed his

excitable brain? What "business of the highest importance" could he

possibly have to transact? Jupiter's account of him boded no good. I

dreaded lest the continued pressure of misfortune had, at length,

fairly unsettled the reason of my friend. Without a moment's

hesitation, therefore, I prepared to accompany the negro.

Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all

apparently new, lying in the bottom of the boat in which we were to

embark.

"What is the meaning of all this, Jup?" I inquired.

"Him syfe, massa, and spade."

"Very true; but what are they doing here?"

"Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buying for him in

de town, and de debbil's own lot of money I had to gib for 'em."

"But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your 'Massa Will'

going to do with scythes and spades?"

"Dat's more dan _I_ know, and debbil take me if I don't b'lieve 'tis

more dan he know, too. But it's all cum ob de bug."

Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose whole

intellect seemed to be absorbed by "de bug," I now stepped into the

boat, and made sail. With a fair and strong breeze we soon ran into

the little cove to the northward of Port Moultrie, and a walk of some

two miles brought us to the hut. It was about three in the afternoon

when we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting us in eager expectation.

He grasped my hand with a nervous _empressement_ which alarmed me and

strengthened the suspicions already entertained. His countenance was

pale even to ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural

lustre. After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not

knowing what better to say, if he had yet obtained the _scarabaeus_

from Lieutenant G----.

"Oh, yes," he replied, coloring violently, "I got it from him the next

morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that _scarabaeus_. Do

you know that Jupiter is quite right about it?"

"In what way?" I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.

"In supposing it to be a bug of real gold." He said this with an air

of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.

"This bug is to make my fortune," he continued, with a triumphant

smile; "to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any wonder,

then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon

me, I have only to use it properly, and I shall arrive at the gold of

which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me that _scarabaeus_!"

"What! de bug, massa? I'd rudder not go fer trubble dat bug; you mus'

git him for your own self." Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and

stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which it

was enclosed. It was a beautiful _scarabaeus_, and, at that time,

unknown to naturalists--of course a great prize in a scientific point

of view. There were two round black spots near one extremity of the

back, and a long one near the other. The scales were exceedingly hard

and glossy, with all the appearance of burnished gold. The weight of

the insect was very remarkable, and, taking all things into

consideration, I could hardly blame Jupiter for his opinion respecting

it; but what to make of Legrand's concordance with that opinion, I

could not, for the life of me, tell.

"I sent for you," said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had

completed my examination of the beetle, "I sent for you that I might

have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of Fate and of

the frag--"

"My dear Legrand," I cried, interrupting him, "you are certainly

unwell, and had better use some little precautions. You shall go to

bed, and I will remain with you a few days, until you get over this.

You are feverish and--"

"Feel my pulse," said he.

I felt it, and to say the truth, found not the slightest indication of

fever.

"But you may be ill and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to

prescribe for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next--"

"You are mistaken," he interposed, "I am as well as I can expect to be

under the excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me well, you

will relieve this excitement."

"And how is this to be done?"

"Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition into the

hills, upon the mainland, and, in this expedition, we shall need the

aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are the only one we can

trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement which you now

perceive in me will be equally allayed."

"I am anxious to oblige you in any way," I replied; "but do you mean to

say that this infernal beetle has any connection with your expedition

into the hills?"

"It has."

"Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd proceeding."

"I am sorry--very sorry--for we shall have to try it by ourselves."

"Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!--but stay!--how long do

you propose to be absent?"

"Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at all

events, by sunrise."

"And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak of

yours is over, and the bug business (good God!) settled to your

satisfaction, you will then return home and follow my advice

implicitly, as that of your physician?"

"Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to lose."

With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four

o'clock--Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with him

the scythe and spades--the whole of which he insisted upon

carrying--more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either of the

implements within reach of his master, than from any excess of industry

or complaisance. His demeanor was dogged in the extreme, and "dat

deuced bug" were the sole words which escaped his lips during the

journey. For my own part, I had charge of a couple of dark lanterns,

while Legrand contented himself with the _scarabaeus_, which he carried

attached to the end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, with

the air of a conjurer, as he went. When I observed this last, plain

evidence of my friend's aberration of mind, I could scarcely refrain

from tears. I thought it best, however, to humor his fancy, at least

for the present, or until I could adopt some more energetic measures

with a chance of success. In the meantime I endeavored, but all in

vain, to sound him in regard to the object of the expedition. Having

succeeded in inducing me to accompany him, he seemed unwilling to hold

conversation upon any topic of minor importance, and to all my

questions vouchsafed no other reply than "we shall see!"

We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a skiff,

and, ascending the high grounds on the shore of the main land,

proceeded in a northwesterly direction, through a tract of country

excessively wild and desolate, where no trace of a human footstep was

to be seen. Legrand led the way with decision; pausing only for an

instant, here and there, to consult what appeared to be certain

landmarks of his own contrivance upon a former occasion.

In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was just

setting when we entered a region infinitely more dreary than any yet

seen. It was a species of table-land, near the summit of an almost

inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base to pinnacle, and

interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie loosely upon the

soil, and in many cases were prevented from precipitating themselves

into the valleys below, merely by the support of the trees against

which they reclined. Deep ravines, in various directions, gave an air

of still sterner solemnity to the scene.

The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly overgrown

with brambles, through which we soon discovered that it would have been

impossible to force our way but for the scythe; and Jupiter, by

direction of his master, proceeded to clear for us a path to the foot

of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which stood, with some eight or ten

oaks, upon the level, and far surpassed them all, and all other trees

which I had then ever seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in

the wide spread of its branches, and in the general majesty of its

appearance. When we reached this tree, Legrand turned to Jupiter, and

asked him if he thought he could climb it. The old man seemed a little

staggered by the question, and for some moments made no reply. At

length he approached the huge trunk, walked slowly around it and

examined it with minute attention. When he had completed his scrutiny,

he merely said:

"Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he eber see in he life."

"Then up with you as soon as possible for it will soon be too dark to

see what we are about."

"How far mus' go up, massa?" inquired Jupiter.

"Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way to

go--and here--stop! take this beetle with you."

"De bug, Massa Will!--de goole-bug!" cried the negro, drawing back in

dismay--"what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?--d--n if I do!"

"If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold of a

harmless little dead beetle, why you can carry it up by this

string--but, if you do not take it up with you in some way, I shall be

under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel."

"What de matter now, massa?" said Jup, evidently shamed into

compliance; "always want for to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was only

funnin, anyhow. Me feered de bug! what I keer for de bug?" Here he

took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and, maintaining

the insect as far from his person as circumstances would permit,

prepared to ascend the tree.

In youth, the tulip-tree, or _Liriodendron Tulipiferum_, the most

magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth, and

often rises to a great height without lateral branches; but, in its

riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many short limbs

make their appearance on the stem. Thus the difficulty of ascension,

in the present case, lay more in semblance than in reality. Embracing

the huge cylinder, as closely as possible with his arms and knees,

seizing with his hands some projections, and resting his naked toes

upon others, Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at

length wriggled himself into the first great fork, and seemed to

consider the whole business as virtually accomplished. The _risk_ of

the achievement was, in fact, now over, although the climber was some

sixty or seventy feet from the ground.

"Which way mus go now, Massa Will?" he asked.

"Keep up the largest branch--the one on this side," said Legrand. The

negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently with but little trouble;

ascending higher and higher, until no glimpse of his squat figure could

be obtained through the dense foliage which enveloped it. Presently

his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.

"How much fudder is got for go?"

"How high up are you?" asked Legrand.

"Ebber so fur," replied the negro; "can see de sky fru de top ob de

tree."

"Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the trunk and

count the limbs below you on this side. How many limbs have you

passed?"

"One, two, tree, four, fibe--I done pass fibe big limb, massa, 'pon dis

side."

"Then go one limb higher."

In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the seventh

limb was attained.

"Now, Jup," cried Legrand, evidently much excited, "I want you to work

your way out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see anything

strange let me know."

By this time what little doubt I might have entertained of my poor

friend's insanity was put finally at rest. I had no alternative but to

conclude him stricken with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about

getting him home. While I was pondering upon what was best to be done,

Jupiter's voice was again heard.

"Mos feered for to ventur pon dis limb berry far--'tis dead limb putty

much all de way."

"Did you say it was a _dead_ limb, Jupiter?" cried Legrand in a

quavering voice.

"Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail--done up for sartin--done

departed dis here life."

"What in the name of heaven shall I do?" asked Legrand, seemingly in

the greatest distress.

"Do!" said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, "why, come

home and go to bed. Come now!--that's a fine fellow. It's getting

late, and, besides, you remember your promise."

"Jupiter," cried he, without heeding me in the least, "do you hear me?"

"Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain."

"Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think it very

rotten."

"Him rotten, massa, sure nuff," replied the negro in a few moments,

"but not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought venture our leetle way

pon de limb by myself, dat's true."

"By yourself!--what do you mean?"

"Why, I mean de bug. 'Tis _berry_ hebby bug. Spose I drop him down

fuss, and den de limb won't break wid just de weight of one nigger."

"You infernal scoundrel!" cried Legrand, apparently much relieved,

"what do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that? As sure as you

drop that beetle I'll break your neck. Look here, Jupiter, do you hear

me?"

"Yes, massa, needn't hollo at poor nigger dat style."

"Well! now listen!--if you will venture out on the limb as far as you

think safe, and not let go the beetle, I'll make you a present of a

silver dollar as soon as you get down."

"I'm gwine, Massa Will--deed I is," replied the negro very

promptly--"mos out to the eend now."

"_Out to the end!_" here fairly screamed Legrand; "do you say you are

out to the end of that limb?"

"Soon be to the eend, massa--o-o-o-o-oh! Lor-gol-a-mercy! what _is_

dis here pon de tree?"

"Well!" cried Legrand, highly delighted, "what is it?"

"Why, 'taint noffin but a skull--somebody bin lef him head up de tree,

and de crows done gobble ebery bit ob de meat off."

"A skull, you say!--very well--how is it fastened to the limb?--what

holds it on?"

"Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why dis berry curious sarcumstance, pon

my word--dare's a great big nail in de skull, what fastens ob it on to

de tree."

"Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you--do you hear?"

"Yes, massa."

"Pay attention, then--find the left eye of the skull."

"Hum! hoo! dat's good! why dey ain't no eye lef at all."

"Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your left?"

"Yes, I knows dat--knows all about dat--'tis my lef hand what I chops

de wood wid."

"To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left eye is on the same side

as your left hand. Now, I suppose, you can find the left eye of the

skull, or the place where the left eye has been. Have you found it?"

Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked:

"Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de skull,

too?--cause de skull aint got not a bit ob a hand at all--nebber mind!

I got de lef eye now--here de lef eye! what mus do wid it?"

"Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will reach--but

be careful and not let go your hold of the string."

"All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru de

hole--look out for him dare below!"

During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter's person could be seen; but

the beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now visible at the

end of the string, and glistened, like a globe of burnished gold, in

the last rays of the setting sun, some of which still faintly illumined

the eminence upon which we stood. The _scarabaeus_ hung quite clear of

any branches, and, if allowed to fall, would have fallen at our feet.

Legrand immediately took the scythe, and cleared with it a circular

space, three or four yards in diameter, just beneath the insect, and

having accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let go the string and come

down from the tree.

Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, at the precise spot

where the beetle fell, my friend now produced from his pocket a

tape-measure. Fastening one end of this at that point of the trunk of

the tree which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it reached the

peg and thence further unrolled it, in the direction already

established by the two points of the tree and the peg, for the distance

of fifty feet--Jupiter clearing away the brambles with the scythe. At

the spot thus attained a second peg was driven, and about this, as a

centre, a rude circle, about four feet in diameter, described. Taking

now a spade himself, and giving one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand

begged us to set about digging as quickly as possible.

To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement at any

time, and, at that particular moment, would willingly have declined it;

for the night was coming on, and I felt much fatigued with the exercise

already taken; but I saw no mode of escape, and was fearful of

disturbing my poor friend's equanimity by a refusal. Could I have

depended, indeed, upon Jupiter's aid, I would have had no hesitation in

attempting to get the lunatic home by force; but I was too well assured

of the old negro's disposition to hope that he would assist me, under

any circumstances, in a personal contest with his master. I made no

doubt that the latter had been infected with some of the innumerable

Southern superstitions about money buried, and that his phantasy had

received confirmation by the finding of the _scarabaeus_, or, perhaps,

by Jupiter's obstinacy in maintaining it to be "a bug of real gold." A

mind disposed to lunacy would readily be led away by such

suggestions--especially if chiming in with favorite preconceived

ideas--and then I called to mind the poor fellow's speech about the

beetle's being "the index of his fortune." Upon the whole, I was sadly

vexed and puzzled, but, at length, I concluded to make a virtue of

necessity--to dig with a good will, and thus the sooner to convince the

visionary, by ocular demonstration, of the fallacy of the opinion he

entertained.

The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal worthy a

more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our persons and

implements, I could not help thinking how picturesque a group we

composed, and how strange and suspicious our labors must have appeared

to any interloper who, by chance, might have stumbled upon our

whereabout.

We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; and our chief

embarrassment lay in the yelpings of the dog, who took exceeding

interest in our proceedings. He, at length, became so obstreperous

that we grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some stragglers in the

vicinity--or, rather, this was the apprehension of Legrand;--for

myself, I should have rejoiced at any interruption which might have

enabled me to get the wanderer home. The noise was, at length, very

effectually silenced by Jupiter, who, getting out of the hole with a

dogged air of deliberation, tied the brute's mouth up with one of his

suspenders, and then returned, with a grave chuckle, to his task.

When the time mentioned had expired, we had reached a depth of five

feet, and yet no signs of any treasure became manifest. A general

pause ensued, and I began to hope that the farce was at an end.

Legrand, however, although evidently much disconcerted, wiped his brow

thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated the entire circle of

four feet diameter, and now we slightly enlarged the limit, and went to

the further depth of two feet. Still nothing appeared. The

gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at length clambered from the pit,

with the bitterest disappointment imprinted upon every feature, and

proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he had

thrown off at the beginning of his labor. In the meantime I made no

remark. Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up his

tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we turned in

profound silence toward home.

We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, when, with a

loud oath, Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and seized him by the collar.

The astonished negro opened his eyes and mouth to the fullest extent,

let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees.

"You scoundrel!" said Legrand, hissing out the syllables from between

his clinched teeth--"you infernal black villain!--speak, I tell

you!--answer me this instant, without prevarication!--which--which is

your left eye?"

"Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef eye for attain?" roared

the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right organ of vision,

and holding it there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in immediate

dread of his master's attempt at a gouge.

"I thought so!--I knew it! hurrah!" vociferated Legrand, letting the

negro go and executing a series of curvets and caracols, much to the

astonishment of his valet, who, arising from his knees, looked, mutely,

from his master to myself, and then from myself to his master.

"Come! we must go back," said the latter, "the game's not up yet;" and

he again led the way to the tulip-tree.

"Jupiter," said he, when we reached its foot, "come here! was the skull

nailed to the limb with the face outward, or with the face to the limb?"

"De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes good,

widout any trouble."

"Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped the

beetle?" here Legrand touched each of Jupiter's eyes.

"'Twas dis eye, massa--de lef eye--jis as you tell me," and here it was

his right eye that the negro indicated.

"That will do--we must try it again."

Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, or fancied that I saw,

certain indications of method, removed the peg which marked the spot

where the beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to the westward of

its former position. Taking, now, the tape measure from the nearest

point of the trunk to the peg, as before, and continuing the extension

in a straight line to the distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated,

removed, by several yards, from the point at which we had been digging.

Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the former

instance, was now described, and we again set to work with the spade.

I was dreadfully weary, but, scarcely understanding what had occasioned

the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer any great aversion from the

labor imposed. I had become most unaccountably interested--nay, even

excited. Perhaps there was something, amid all the extravagant

demeanor of Legrand--some air of forethought, or of deliberation, which

impressed me. I dug eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually

looking, with something that very much resembled expectation, for the

fancied treasure, the vision of which had demented my unfortunate

companion. At a period when such vagaries of thought most fully

possessed me, and when we had been at work perhaps an hour and a half,

we were again interrupted by the violent howlings of the dog. His

uneasiness, in the first instance, had been, evidently, but the result

of playfulness or caprice, but he now assumed a bitter and serious

tone. Upon Jupiter's again attempting to muzzle him, he made furious

resistance, and, leaping into the hole, tore up the mould frantically

with his claws. In a few seconds he had uncovered a mass of human

bones, forming two complete skeletons, intermingled with several

buttons of metal, and what appeared to be the dust of decayed woollen.

One or two strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large Spanish

knife, and, as we dug further, three or four loose pieces of gold and

silver coin came to light.

At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely be restrained, but

the countenance of his master wore an air of extreme disappointment.

He urged us, however, to continue our exertions, and the words were

hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell forward, having caught the toe

of my boot in a large ring of iron that lay half buried in the loose

earth.

We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten minutes of more

intense excitement. During this interval we had fairly unearthed an

oblong chest of wood, which, from its perfect preservation and

wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected to some mineralizing

process--perhaps that of the bi-chloride of mercury. This box was

three feet and a half long, three feet broad, and two and a half feet

deep. It was firmly secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and

forming a kind of open trellis-work over the whole. On each side of

the chest, near the top, were three rings of iron--six in all--by means

of which a firm hold could be obtained by six persons. Our utmost

united endeavors served only to disturb the coffer very slightly in its

bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing so great a weight.

Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts.

These we drew back--trembling and panting with anxiety. In an instant,

a treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming before us. As the rays

of the lanterns fell within the pit, there flashed upward a glow and a

glare, from a confused heap of gold and of jewels, that absolutely

dazzled our eyes.

I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed.

Amazement was, of course, predominant. Legrand appeared exhausted with

excitement, and spoke very few words. Jupiter's countenance wore, for

some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, in the nature of

things, for any negro's visage to assume. He seemed

stupefied--thunderstricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in the

pit, and burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold, let them

there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At length, with a

deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy:

"And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug! de poor little

goole-bug, what I boosed in that sabage kind ob style! Aint you shamed

ob yourself, nigger?--answer me dat!"

It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master and

valet to the expediency of removing the treasure. It was growing late,

and it behooved us to make exertion, that we might get everything

housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what should be done,

and much time was spent in deliberation--so confused were the ideas of

all. We, finally, lightened the box by removing two-thirds of its

contents, when we were enabled, with some trouble, to raise it from the

hole. The articles taken out were deposited among the brambles, and

the dog left to guard them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither,

upon any pretence, to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth until

our return. We then hurriedly made for home with the chest; reaching

the hut in safety, but after excessive toil, at one o'clock in the

morning. Worn out as we were, it was not in human nature to do more

immediately. We rested until two, and had supper; starting for the

hills immediately afterward, armed with three stout sacks, which, by

good luck, were upon the premises. A little before four we arrived at

the pit, divided the remainder of the booty, as equally as might be,

among us, and, leaving the holes unfilled, again set out for the hut,

at which, for the second time, we deposited our golden burdens, just as

the first faint streaks of the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in

the East.

We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense excitement of the

time denied us repose. After an unquiet slumber of some three or four

hours' duration, we arose, as if by preconcert, to make examination of

our treasure.

The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent the whole day, and

the greater part of the next night, in a scrutiny of its contents.

There had been nothing like order or arrangement. Everything had been

heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with care, we found

ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than we had at first

supposed. In coin, there was rather more than four hundred and fifty

thousand dollars--estimating the value of the pieces, as accurately as

we could, by the tables of the period. There was not a particle of

silver. All was gold of antique date and of great variety--French,

Spanish, and German money, with a few English guineas, and some

counters, of which we had never seen specimens before. There were

several very large and heavy coins, so worn that we could make nothing

of their inscriptions. There was no American money. The value of the

jewels we found more difficulty in estimating. There were

diamonds--some of them exceedingly large and fine--a hundred and ten in

all, and not one of them small; eighteen rubies of remarkable

brilliancy;--three hundred and ten emeralds, all very beautiful; and

twenty-one sapphires, with an opal. These stones had all been broken

from their settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings

themselves, which we picked out from among the other gold, appeared to

have been beaten up with hammers, as if to prevent identification.

Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments;

nearly two hundred massive finger and ear rings; rich chains--thirty of

these, if I remember; eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes;

five gold censers of great value; a prodigious golden punch-bowl,

ornamented with richly chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures;

with two sword-handles exquisitely embossed, and many other smaller

articles which I can not recollect. The weight of these valuables

exceeded three hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois; and in this

estimate I have not included one hundred and ninety-seven superb gold

watches; three of the number being worth each five hundred dollars, if

one. Many of them were very old, and as timekeepers, valueless; the

works having suffered, more or less, from corrosion--but all were

richly jewelled and in cases of great worth. We estimated the entire

contents of the chest, that night, at a million and a half of dollars;

and upon the subsequent disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a few

being retained for our own use), it was found that we had greatly

undervalued the treasure.

When, at length, we had concluded our examination, and the intense

excitement of the time had, in some measure, subsided, Legrand, who saw

that I was dying with impatience for a solution of this most

extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of all the

circumstances connected with it.

"You remember," said he, "the night when I handed you the rough sketch

I had made of the _scarabaeus_. You recollect, also, that I became

quite vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled a

death's-head. When you first made this assertion I thought you were

jesting; but afterward I called to mind the peculiar spots on the back

of the insect, and admitted to myself that your remark had some little

foundation in fact. Still, the sneer at my graphic powers irritated

me--for I am considered a good artist--and, therefore, when you handed

me the scrap of parchment, I was about to crumple it up and throw it

angrily into the fire."

"The scrap of paper, you mean," said I.

"No; it had much of the appearance of paper, and at first I supposed it

to be such, but when I came to draw upon it, I discovered it at once to

be a piece of very thin parchment. It was quite dirty, you remember.

Well, as I was in the very act of crumpling it up, my glance fell upon

the sketch at which you had been looking, and you may imagine my

astonishment when I perceived, in fact, the figure of a death's-head

just where, it seemed to me, I had made the drawing of the beetle. For

a moment I was too much amazed to think with accuracy. I knew that my

design was very different in detail from this--although there was a

certain similarity in general outline. Presently I took a candle, and

seating myself at the other end of the room, proceeded to scrutinize

the parchment more closely. Upon turning it over, I saw my own sketch

upon the reverse, just as I had made it. My first idea, now, was mere

surprise at the really remarkable similarity of outline--at the

singular coincidence involved in the fact that, unknown to me, there

should have been a skull upon the other side of the parchment,

immediately beneath my figure of the _scarabaeus_, and that this skull,

not only in outline but in size, should so closely resemble my drawing.

I say the singularity of this coincidence absolutely stupefied me for a

time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind

struggles to establish a connection--a sequence of cause and

effect--and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary

paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor, there dawned upon

me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more than the

coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember that there

had been no drawing upon the parchment when I made my sketch of the

_scarabaeus_. I became perfectly certain of this; for I recollected

turning up first one side and then the other, in search of the cleanest

spot. Had the skull been then there, of course I could not have failed

to notice it. Here was indeed a mystery which I felt it impossible to

explain; but, even at that early moment, there seemed to glimmer,

faintly, within the most remote and secret chambers of my intellect, a

glow-worm-like conception of that truth which last night's adventure

brought to so magnificent a demonstration. I arose at once, and,

putting the parchment securely away, dismissed all further reflection

until I should be alone.

"When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast asleep, I betook myself

to a more methodical investigation of the affair. In the first place,

I considered the manner in which the parchment had come into my

possession. The spot where we discovered the _scarabaeus_ was on the

coast of the mainland, about a mile eastward of the island, and but a

short distance above high-water mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it

gave me a sharp bite, which caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, with

his accustomed caution, before seizing the insect, which had flown

toward him, looked about him for a leaf, or something of that nature,

by which to take hold of it. It was at this moment that his eyes, and

mine also, fell upon the scrap of parchment, which I then supposed to

be paper. It was lying half buried in the sand, a corner sticking up.

Near the spot where we found it, I observed the remnants of the hull of

what appeared to have been a ship's long-boat. The wreck seemed to

have been there for a very great while; for the resemblance to boat

timbers could scarcely be traced.

"Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it, and

gave it to me. Soon afterward we turned to go home, and on the way met

Lieutenant G----. I showed him the insect, and he begged me to let him

take it to the fort. Upon my consenting, he thrust it forthwith into

his waistcoat pocket, without the parchment in which it had been

wrapped, and which I had continued to hold in my hand during his

inspection. Perhaps he dreaded my changing my mind, and thought it

best to make sure of the prize at once--you know how enthusiastic he is

on all subjects connected with Natural History. At the same time,

without being conscious of it, I must have deposited the parchment in

my own pocket.

"You remember that when I went to the table for the purpose of making a

sketch of the beetle, I found no paper where it was usually kept. I

looked in the drawer, and found none there. I searched my pockets,

hoping to find an old letter, when my hand fell upon the parchment. I

thus detail the precise mode in which it came into my possession; for

the circumstances impressed me with peculiar force.

"No doubt you will think me fanciful--but I had already established a

kind of connection. I had put together two links of a great chain.

There was a boat lying upon a seacoast, and not far from the boat was a

parchment--_not a paper_--with a skull depicted upon it. You will, of

course, ask 'where is the connection?' I reply that the skull, or

death's-head, is the well-known emblem of the pirate. The flag of the

death's-head is hoisted in all engagements.

"I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not paper. Parchment is

durable--almost imperishable. Matters of little moment are rarely

consigned to parchment; since, for the mere ordinary purposes of

drawing or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted as paper. This

reflection suggested some meaning--some relevancy--in the death's-head.

I did not fail to observe, also, the _form_ of the parchment. Although

one of its corners had been, by some accident, destroyed, it could be

seen that the original form was oblong. It was just such a slip,

indeed, as might have been chosen for a memorandum--for a record of

something to be long remembered and carefully preserved."

"But," I interposed, "you say that the skill was not upon the parchment

when you made the drawing of the beetle. How then do you trace any

connection between the boat and the skull---since this latter,

according to your own admission, must have been designed (God only

knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your sketching the

_scarabaeus_?"

"Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although the secret, at this

point, I had comparatively little difficulty in solving. My steps were

sure, and could afford but a single result I reasoned, for example,

thus: When I drew the _scarabaeus_, there was no skull apparent upon

the parchment When I had completed the drawing I gave it to you, and

observed you narrowly until you returned it. You, therefore, did not

design the skull, and no one else was present to do it. Then it was

not done by human agency. And nevertheless it was done.

"At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to remember, and _did_

remember, with entire distinctness, every incident which occurred about

the period in question. The weather was chilly (oh, rare and happy

accident!), and a fire was blazing upon the hearth. I was heated with

exercise and sat near the table. You, however, had drawn a chair close

to the chimney. Just as I placed the parchment in your hand, and as

you were in the act of inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered,

and leaped upon your shoulders. With your left hand you caressed him

and kept him off, while your right, holding the parchment, was

permitted to fall listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity

to the fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was

about to caution you, but, before I could speak, you had withdrawn it,

and were engaged in its examination. When I considered all these

particulars, I doubted not for a moment that heat had been the agent in

bringing to light, upon the parchment, the skull which I saw designed

upon it. You are well aware that chemical preparations exist, and have

existed time out of mind, by means of which it is possible to write

upon either paper or vellum, so that the characters shall become

visible only when subjected to the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in

_aqua regia_, and diluted with four times its weight of water, is

sometimes employed; a green tint results. The regulus of cobalt,

dissolved in spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colors disappear at

longer or shorter intervals after the material written upon cools, but

again become apparent upon the reapplication of heat.

"I now scrutinized the death's-head with care. Its outer edges--the

edges of the drawing nearest the edge of the vellum--were far more

_distinct_ than the others. It was clear that the action of the

caloric had been imperfect or unequal. I immediately kindled a fire,

and subjected every portion of the parchment to a glowing heat. At

first, the only effect was the strengthening of the faint lines in the

skull; but, upon persevering in the experiment, there became visible,

at the corner of the slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the

death's-head was delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed to

be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me that it was

intended for a kid."

"Ha! ha!" said I, "to be sure I have no right to laugh at you--a

million and a half of money is too serious a matter for mirth--but you

are not about to establish a third link in your chain--you will not

find any especial connection between your pirates and a goat--pirates,

you know, have nothing to do with goats; they appertain to the farming

interest."

"But I have just said that the figure was _not_ that of a goat."

"Well, a kid, then--pretty much the same thing."

"Pretty much, but not altogether," said Legrand. "You may have heard

of one _Captain_ Kidd. I at once looked upon the figure of the animal

as a kind of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I say signature,

because, its position upon the vellum suggested this idea. The

death's-head at the corner diagonally opposite, had, in the same

manner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But I was sorely put out by the

absence of all else--of the body to my imagined instrument--of the text

for my context."

"I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and the

signature."

"Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly impressed

with a presentiment of some vast good fortune impending. I can

scarcely say why. Perhaps, after all, it was rather a desire than an

actual belief;--but do you know that Jupiter's silly words, about the

bug being of solid gold, had a remarkable effect upon my fancy? And

then the series of accidents and coincidents--these were so _very_

extraordinary. Do you observe how mere an accident it was that these

events should have occurred upon the _sole_ day of all the year in

which it has been, or may be sufficiently cool for foe, and that

without the fire, or without the intervention of the dog at the precise

moment in which he appeared, I should never have become aware of the

death's-head, and so never the possessor of the treasure?"

"But proceed--I am all impatience."

"Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories current--the

thousand vague rumors afloat about money buried, somewhere upon the

Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his associates. These rumors must have had

some foundation in fact. And that the rumors have existed so long and

so continuously, could have resulted, it appeared to me, only from the

circumstance of the buried treasures still _remaining_ entombed. Had

Kidd concealed his plunder for a time, and afterward reclaimed it, the

rumors would scarcely have reached us in their present unvarying form.

You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, not

about money-finders. Had the pirate recovered his money, there the

affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that some accident--say the

loss of a memorandum indicating its locality--had deprived him of the

means of recovering it, and that this accident had become known to his

followers, who otherwise might never have heard that the treasure had

been concealed at all, and who, busying themselves in vain, because

unguided, attempts to regain it, had given first birth, and then

universal currency, to the reports which are now so common. Have you

ever heard of any important treasure being unearthed along the coast?"

"Never."

"But that Kidd's accumulations were immense, is well known. I took it

for granted, therefore, that the earth still held them; and you will

scarcely be surprised when I tell you that I felt a hope, nearly

amounting to certainty, that the parchment so strangely found involved

a lost record of the place of deposit."

"But how did you proceed?"

"I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing the heat, but

nothing appeared. I now thought it possible that the coating of dirt

might have something to do with the failure: so I carefully rinsed the

parchment by pouring warm water over it, and, having done this, I

placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downward, and put the pan upon a

furnace of lighted charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become

thoroughly heated, I removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy,

found it spotted, in several places, with what appeared to be figures

arranged in lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to

remain another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you

see it now."

Here Legrand, having reheated the parchment, submitted it to my

inspection. The following characters were rudely traced in a red tint,

between the death's-head and the goat:

"53[dd][dd]t3o5))6*;4826)4[dd])4[dd].;8o6*;48[d]8[pilcrow]6o))85

;1[dd](;:[dd]*8[d]83(88)5*[d];46(;88*96e*?;8)*[dd](;485);5*[d]2:*

[dd](;4956*2(5*--4)8[pilcrow]8*;4o69285);)6[d]8)4tt;1([dd]9;48o81

;8:8[dd]1;48t85;4)485[d]5288o6*81([dd]9;48;(88;4([dd]

?34;48)4[dd];161;:188:188;[dd]?;"

[Transcriber's note: "[d]" indicates the dagger symbol, "[dd]"

indicates the double-dagger symbol, and "[pilcrow]" indicates the

pilcrow symbol.]

"But," said I, returning him the slip, "I am as much in the dark as

ever. Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me upon my solution of

this enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable to earn them."

"And yet," said Legrand, "the solution is by no means so difficult as

you might be led to imagine from the first hasty inspection of the

characters. These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a

cipher--that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then from what is

known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of

the more abstruse cryptographs, I made up my mind, at once, that this

was of a simple species--such, however, as would appear, to the crude

intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key."

"And you really solved it?"

"Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thousand times

greater. Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have led me to

take interest in such riddles, and it may well be doubted whether human

ingenuity can construct an enigma of the kind which human ingenuity may

not, by proper application, resolve. In fact, having once established

connected and legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere

difficulty of developing their import.

"In the present case--indeed, in all cases of secret writing--the first

question regards the _language_ of the cipher; for the principles of

solution, so far, especially, as the more simple ciphers are concerned,

depend upon, and are varied by, the genius of the particular idiom. In

general, there is no alternative but experiment (directed by

probabilities) of every tongue known to him who attempts the solution,

until the true one be attained. But, with the cipher now before us all

difficulty was removed by the signature. The pun upon the word 'Kidd'

is appreciable in no other language than the English. But for this

consideration I should have begun my attempts with Spanish and French,

as the tongues in which a secret of this kind would most naturally have

been written by a pirate of the Spanish, main. As it was, I assumed

the cryptograph to be English.

"You observe there are no divisions between the words. Had there been

divisions the task would have been comparatively easy. In such cases I

should have commenced with a collation and analysis of the shorter

words, and, had a word of a single letter occurred, as is most likely

(_a_ or _I_, for example), I should have considered the solution as

assured. But, there being no division, my first step was to ascertain

the predominant letters, as well as the least frequent. Counting all,

I constructed a table thus:

Of the characters 8 there are 33.

; " 26

4 " 19

* " 16

[double dagger]) " 13

5 " 14

6 " 11

[dagger]1 " 8

o " 6

92 " 5

:3 " 4

? " 3

[pilcrow] " 2

--. " 1

"Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is _e_.

Afterward, the succession runs thus: _a o i d h n r s t u y c f g l m w

b k p q x z_. E predominates so remarkably, that an individual

sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the

prevailing character.

"Here, then, we have, in the very beginning, the groundwork for

something more than a mere guess. The general use which may be made of

the table is obvious--but, in this particular cipher, we shall only

very partially require its aid. As our predominant character is 8, we

will commence by assuming it as the _e_ of the natural alphabet. To

verify the supposition, let us observe if the 8 be seen often in

couples--for _e_ is doubled with great frequency in English--in such

words, for example, as 'meet,' 'fleet,' 'speed,' 'seen,' 'been,'

'agree,' etc. In the present instance we see it doubled no less than

five times, although the cryptograph is brief.

"Let us assume 8, then, as _e_. Now, of all _words_ in the language,

'the' is most usual; let us see, therefore, whether there are not

repetitions of any three characters, in the same order of collocation,

the last of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of such letters,

so arranged, they will most probably represent the word 'the.' Upon

inspection, we find no less than seven such arrangements, the

characters being ;48. We may, therefore, assume that ; represents _t_,

4 represents _h_, and 8 represents _e_--the last being now well

confirmed. Thus a great step has been taken.

"But, having established a single word, we are enabled to establish a

vastly important point; that is to say, several commencements and

terminations of other words. Let us refer, for example, to the last

instance but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs--not far from the

end of the cipher. We know that the ; immediately ensuing is the

commencement of a word, and, of six characters succeeding this 'the,'

we are cognizant of no less than five. Let us set these characters

down, thus, by the letters we know them to represent, leaving a space

for the unknown--

t eeth.

"Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the '_th_,' as forming no

portion of the word commencing with the first _t_; since, by experiment

of the entire alphabet for a letter adapted to the vacancy, we perceive

that no word can be formed of which this _th_ can be a part. We are

thus narrowed into

t ee,

and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before, we arrive at

the word 'tree,' as the sole possible reading. We thus gain another

letter, _r_, represented by (, with the words 'the tree' in

juxtaposition.

"Looking beyond these words, for a short distance, we again see the

combination ;48, and employ it by way of termination to what

immediately precedes. We have thus this arrangement:

the tree;4([dagger]?34 the,

or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it reads thus:

the tree thr[double dagger]?3h the.

"Now, if, in the place of the unknown characters, we leave blank

spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus:

the tree thr...h the,

when the word 'through' makes itself evident at once. But this

discovery gives us three new letters, _o_, _u_, and _g_, represented by

[double dagger], ?, and 3.

"Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of known

characters, we find, not very far from the beginning, this arrangement,

83(88, or egree.

which plainly, is the conclusion of the word 'degree,' and gives us

another letter, _d_, represented by [dagger].

"Four letters beyond the word 'degree,' we perceive the combination

;46(;88

"Translating the known characters, and representing the unknown by

dots, as before, we read thus:

th.rtee,

an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word 'thirteen,' and again

furnishing us with two new characters, _i_ and _n_, represented by 6

and *.

"Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, we find the

combination,

53[double dagger][double dagger][dagger].

"Translating as before, we obtain

.good,

which assures us that the first letter is _A_, and that the first two

words are 'A good.'

"It is now time that we arrange our key, as far as discovered, in a

tabular form, to avoid confusion. It will stand thus:

5 represents a

[dagger] " d

8 " e

3 " g

4 " h

6 " i

* " n

[double dagger] " o

( " r

: " t

? " u

"We have, therefore, no less than eleven of the most important letters

represented, and it will be unnecessary to proceed with the details of

the solution. I have said enough to convince you that ciphers of this

nature are readily soluble, and to give you some insight into the

_rationale_ of their development. But be assured that the specimen

before us appertains to the very simplest species of cryptograph. It

now only remains to give you the full translation of the characters

upon the parchment, as unriddled. Here it is:

"'_A good glass in the bishop's hostel in the devil's seat forty-one

degrees and thirteen minutes northeast and by north main branch seventh

limb east side shoot from the left eye of the death's-head a bee-line

from the tree through the shot fifty feet out._'"

"But," said I, "the enigma seems still in as bad a condition as ever.

How is it possible to extort a meaning from all this jargon about

'devil's seats,' 'death's-head,' and 'bishop's hotels?'"

"I confess," replied Legrand, "that the matter still wears a serious

aspect, when regarded with a casual glance. My first endeavor was to

divide the sentence into the natural division intended by the

cryptographist."

"You mean, to punctuate it?"

"Something of that kind."

"But how was it possible to effect this?"

"I reflected that it had been a point with the writer to run his words

together without division, so as to increase the difficulty of

solution. Now, a not over-acute man, in pursuing such an object, would

be nearly certain to overdo the matter. When, in the course of his

composition, he arrived at a break in his subject which would naturally

require a pause, or a point, he would be exceedingly apt to run his

characters, at this place, more than usually close together. If you

will observe the MS., in the present instance, you will easily detect

five such cases of unusual crowding. Acting upon this hint, I made the

division thus:

"'_A good glass in the bishop's hostel in the devil's seat--forty-one

degrees and thirteen minutes--northeast and by north--main branch

seventh limb east side--shoot from the left eye of the death's-head--a

bee-line from the tree through the shot fifty feet out._'"

"Even this division," said I, "leaves me still in the dark."

"It left me also in the dark," replied Legrand, "for a few days; during

which I made diligent inquiry in the neighborhood of Sullivan's Island,

for any building which went by name of the 'Bishop's Hotel'; for, of

course, I dropped the obsolete word 'hostel.' Gaining no information

on the subject, I was on the point of extending my sphere of search,

and proceeding in a more systematic manner, when, one morning, it

entered into my head, quite suddenly, that this 'Bishop's Hostel' might

have some reference to an old family, of the name of Bessop, which,

time out of mind, had held possession of an ancient manor-house, about

four miles to the northward of the island. I accordingly went over to

the plantation, and reinstituted my inquiries among the older negroes

of the place. At length one of the most aged of the women said that

she had heard of such a place as Bessop's Castle, and thought that she

could guide me to it, but that it was not a castle, nor a tavern, but a

high rock.

"I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after some demur, she

consented to accompany me to the spot. We found it without much

difficulty, when, dismissing her, I proceeded to examine the place.

The 'castle' consisted of an irregular assemblage of cliffs and

rocks--one of the latter being quite remarkable for its height as well

as for its insulated and artificial appearance. I clambered to its

apex, and then felt much at a loss as to what should be next done.

"While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in

the eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit upon

which I stood. This ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not

more than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just above it gave it

a rude resemblance to one of the hollow-backed chairs used by our

ancestors. I made no doubt that here was the 'devil's-seat' alluded to

in the MS., and now I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle.

"The 'good glass,' I knew, could have reference to nothing but a

telescope; for the word 'glass' is rarely employed in any other sense

by seamen. Now here, I at once saw, was a telescope to be used, and a

definite point of view, admitting _no variation_, from which to use it.

Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases, 'forty-one degrees and

thirteen minutes,' and 'northeast and by north,' were intended as

directions for the levelling of the glass. Greatly excited by these

discoveries, I hurried home, procured a telescope, and returned to the

rock.

"I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it was impossible to

retain a seat upon it except in one particular position. This fact

confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded to use the glass. Of

course, the 'forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes' could allude to

nothing but elevation above the visible horizon, since the horizontal

direction was clearly indicated by the words, 'northeast and by north.'

This latter direction I at once established by means of a

pocket-compass; then, pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of

forty-one degrees of elevation as I could do it by guess, I moved it

cautiously up or down, until my attention was arrested by a circular

rift or opening in the foliage of a large tree that overtopped its

fellows in the distance. In the centre of this rift I perceived a

white spot, but could not, at first, distinguish what it was.

Adjusting the focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now made it

out to be a human skull.

"Upon this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma

solved; for the phrase 'main branch, seventh limb, east side,' could

refer only to the position of the skull upon the tree, while 'shoot

from the left eye of the death's-head' admitted, also, of but one

interpretation, in regard to a search for buried treasure. I perceived

that the design was to drop a bullet from the left eye of the skull,

and that a bee-line, or, in other words, a straight line, drawn from

the nearest point of the trunk through the shot (or the spot where the

bullet fell), and thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would

indicate a definite point--and beneath this point I thought it at least

_possible_ that a deposit of value lay concealed."

"All this," I said, "is exceedingly clear, and, although ingenious,

still simple and explicit. When you left the Bishop's Hotel, what

then?"

"Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the tree, I turned

homeward. The instant that I left 'the devil's-seat,' however, the

circular rift vanished; nor could I get a glimpse of it afterward, turn

as I would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this whole

business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has convinced me it _is_

a fact) that the circular opening in question is visible from no other

attainable point of view than that afforded by the narrow ledge upon

the face of the rock.

"In this expedition to the 'Bishop's Hotel' I had been attended by

Jupiter, who had, no doubt, observed, for some weeks past, the

abstraction of my demeanor, and took especial care not to leave me

alone. But, on the next day, getting up very early, I contrived to

give him the slip, and went into the hills in search of the tree.

After much toil I found it. When I came home at night my valet

proposed to give me a flogging. With the rest of the adventure I

believe you are as well acquainted as myself."

"I suppose," said I, "you missed the spot, in the first attempt at

digging, through Jupiter's stupidity in letting the bug fall through

the right instead of through the left eye of the skull."

"Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about two inches and a

half in the 'shot'--that is to say, in the position of the peg nearest

the tree; and had the treasure been _beneath_ the 'shot,' the error

would have been of little moment; but 'the shot,' together with the

nearest point of the tree, were merely two points for the establishment

of a line of direction; of course, the error, however trivial in the

beginning, increased as we proceeded with the line, and by the time we

had gone fifty feet threw us quite off the scent. But for my

deep-seated impressions that treasure was here somewhere actually

buried, we might have had all our labor in vain."

"But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the beetle--how

excessively odd! I was sure you were mad. And why did you insist upon

letting fall the bug, instead of a bullet, from the skull?"

"Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your evident suspicions

touching my sanity, and so resolved to punish you quietly, in my own

way, by a little bit of sober mystification. For this reason I swung

the beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from the tree. An

observation of yours about its great weight suggested the latter idea."

"Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point which puzzles me.

What are we to make of the skeletons found in the hole?"

"That is a question I am no more able to answer than yourself. There

seems, however, only one plausible way of accounting for them--and yet

it is dreadful to believe in such atrocity as my suggestion would

imply. It is clear that Kidd--if Kidd indeed secreted this treasure,

which I doubt not--it is clear that he must have had assistance in the

labor. But this labor concluded, he may have thought it expedient to

remove all participants in his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows with

a mattock were sufficient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit;

perhaps it required a dozen--who shall tell?"

CORPORAL FLINT'S MURDER

By J. FENIMORE COOPER

Half an hour passed after the execution of the missionary before the

chiefs commenced their proceedings with the corporal. The delay was

owing to a consultation, in which The Weasel had proposed despatching a

party to the castle, to bring in the family, and thus make a common

destruction of the remaining pale-faces known to be in that part of the

Openings. Peter did not dare to oppose this scheme, himself; but he so

managed as to get Crowsfeather to do it, without bringing himself into

the foreground. The influence of the Pottawattamie prevailed, and it

was decided to torture this one captive, and to secure his scalp,

before they proceeded to work their will on the others. Ungque, who

had gained ground rapidly by his late success, was once more

commissioned to state to the captive the intentions of his captors.

"Brother," commenced The Weasel, placing himself directly in front of

the corporal, "I am about to speak to you. A wise warrior opens his

ears, when he hears the voice of his enemy. He may learn something it

will be good for him to know. It will be good for you to know what I

am about to say.

"Brother, you are a pale-face, and we are Injins. You wish to get our

hunting-grounds, and we wish to keep them. To keep them, it has become

necessary to take your scalp. I hope you are ready to let us have it."

The corporal had but an indifferent knowledge of the Indian language,

but he comprehended all that was uttered on this occasion. Interest

quickened his faculties, and no part of what was said was lost. The

gentle, slow, deliberate manner in which The Weasel delivered himself,

contributed to his means of understanding. He was fortunately prepared

for what he heard, and the announcement of his approaching fate did not

disturb him to the degree of betraying weakness. This last was a

triumph in which the Indians delighted, though they ever showed the

most profound respect for such of their victims as manifested a manly

fortitude. It was necessary to reply, which the corporal did in

English, knowing that several present could interpret his words. With

a view to render this the more easy, he spoke in fragments of

sentences, and with great deliberation.

"Injins," returned the corporal, "you surrounded me, and I have been

taken prisoner--had there been a platoon on us, you mightn't have made

out quite so well. It's no great victory for three hundred warriors to

overcome a single man. I count Parson Amen as worse than nothing, for

he looked to neither rear nor flank. If I could have half an hour's

work upon you, with only half of our late company, I think we should

lower your conceit. But that is impossible, and so you may do just

what you please with me. I ask no favors."

Although this answer was very imperfectly translated, it awakened a

good deal of admiration. A man who could look death so closely in the

face, with so much steadiness, became a sort of hero in Indian eyes;

and with the North American savage, fortitude is a virtue not inferior

to courage. Murmurs of approbation were heard, and Ungque was

privately requested to urge the captive further, in order to see how

far present appearances were likely to be maintained.

"Brother, I have said that we are Injins," resumed The Weasel, with an

air so humble, and a voice so meek, that a stranger might have supposed

he was consoling, instead of endeavoring to intimidate, the prisoner.

"It is true. We are nothing but poor, ignorant Injins. We can only

torment our prisoners after Injin fashion. If we were pale-faces, we

might do better. We did not torment the medicine-priest. We were

afraid he would laugh at our mistakes. He knew a great deal. We know

but little. We do as well as we know how.

"Brother, when Injins do as well as they know how, a warrior should

forget their mistakes. We wish to torment you, in a way to prove that

you are all over man. We wish so to torment you that you will stand up

under the pain in such a way that it will make our young men think your

mother was not a squaw--that there is no woman in you. We do this for

our own honor, as well as for yours. It will be an honor to us to have

such a captive; it will be an honor to you to be such a captive. We

shall do as well as we know how.

"Brother, it is most time to begin. The tormenting will last a long

time. We must not let the medicine-priest get too great a start on the

path to the happy hunting-grounds of your----"

Here, a most unexpected interruption occurred, that effectually put a

stop to the eloquence of Ungque. In his desire to make an impression,

the savage approached within reach of the captive's arm, while his own

mind was intent on the words that he hoped would make the prisoner

quail. The corporal kept his eye on that of the speaker, charming him,

as it were, into a riveted gaze, in return. Watching his opportunity,

he caught the tomahawk from the Weasel's belt, and by a single blow,

felled him dead at his feet. Not content with this, the old soldier

now bounded forward, striking right and left, inflicting six or eight

wounds on others, before he could be again arrested, disarmed, and

bound. While the last was doing, Peter withdrew, unobserved.

Many were the "hughs" and other exclamations of admiration that

succeeded this display of desperate manhood! The body of The Weasel

was removed, and interred, while the wounded withdrew to attend to

their hurts; leaving the arena to the rest assembled there. As for the

corporal, he was pretty well blown, and, in addition to being now bound

hand and foot, his recent exertions, which were terrific while they

lasted, effectually incapacitated him from making any move, so long as

he was thus exhausted and confined.

A council was now held by the principal chiefs. Ungque had few

friends. In this, he shared the fate of most demagogues, who are

commonly despised even by those they lead and deceive. No one

regretted him much, and some were actually glad at his fate. But the

dignity of the conquerors must be vindicated. It would never do to

allow a pale-face to obtain so great an advantage, and not take a

signal vengeance for his deeds. After a long consultation, it was

determined to subject the captive to the trial by saplings, and thus

see if he could bear the torture without complaining. As some of our

readers may not understand what this fell mode of tormenting is, it may

be necessary to explain.

There is scarcely a method of inflicting pain, that comes within the

compass of their means, that the North American Indians have not

essayed on their enemies. When the infernal ingenuity that is

exercised on these occasions fails of its effect, the captives

themselves have been heard to suggest other means of torturing that

_they_ have known practised successfully by their own people. There is

often a strange strife between the tormentors and the tormented; the

one to manifest skill in inflicting pain, and the other to manifest

fortitude in enduring it. As has just been said, quite as much renown

is often acquired by the warrior, in setting all the devices of his

conquerors at defiance, while subject to their hellish attempts, as in

deeds of arms. It might be more true to say that such _was_ the

practice among the Indians, than to say, at the present time, that such

_is_; for it is certain that civilization in its approaches, while it

has in many particulars even degraded the red man, has had a silent

effect in changing and mitigating many of his fiercer customs--this,

perhaps, among the rest. It is probable that the more distant tribes

still resort to all these ancient usages; but it is both hoped and

believed that those nearer to the whites do not.

The "torture by saplings" is one of those modes of inflicting pain that

would naturally suggest themselves to savages. Young trees that do not

stand far apart are trimmed of their branches, and brought nearer to

each other by bending their bodies; the victim is then attached to both

trunks, sometimes by his extended arms, at others by his legs, or by

whatever part of the frame cruelty can suggest, when the saplings are

released, and permitted to resume their upright positions. Of course,

the sufferer is lifted from the earth, and hangs suspended by his

limbs, with a strain on them that soon produces the most intense

anguish. The celebrated punishment of the "knout" partakes a good deal

of this same character of suffering. Bough of the Oak now approached

the corporal, to let him know how high an honor was in reserve for him.

"Brother," said this ambitious orator, "you are a brave warrior. You

have done well. Not only have you killed one of our chiefs, but you

have wounded several of our young men. No one but a brave could have

done this. You have forced us to bind you, lest you might kill some

more. It is not often that captives do this. Your courage has caused

us to consult _how_ we might best torture you, in a way most to

manifest your manhood. After talking together, the chiefs have decided

that a man of your firmness ought to be hung between two young trees.

We have found the trees, and have cut off their branches. You can see

them. If they were a little larger their force would be greater, and

they would give you more pain--would be more worthy of you; but these

are the largest saplings we could find. Had there been any larger, we

would have let you have them. We wish to do you honor, for you are a

bold warrior, and worthy to be well tormented.

"Brother, look at these saplings! They are tall and straight. When

they are bent by many hands, they will come together. Take away the

hands, and they will become straight again. Your arms must then keep

them together. We wish we had some pappooses here, that they might

shoot arrows into your flesh. That would help much to torment you.

You cannot have this honor, for we have no pappooses. We are afraid to

let our young men shoot arrows into your flesh. They are strong, and

might kill you. We wish you to die between the saplings, as is your

right, being so great a brave.

"Brother, we think much better of you since you killed The Weasel, and

hurt our young men. If all your warriors at Chicago had been as bold

as you, Black-Bird would not have taken that fort. You would have

saved many scalps. This encourages us. It makes us think the Great

Spirit means to help us, and that we shall kill all the pale-faces.

When we get further into your settlements, we do not expect to meet

many such braves as you. They tell us we shall then find men who will

run, and screech like women. It will not be a pleasure to torment such

men. We had rather torment a bold warrior, like you, who makes us

admire him for his manliness. We love our squaws, but not in the

war-path. They are best in the lodges; here we want nothing but men.

You are a man--a brave--we honor you. We think, notwithstanding, we

shall yet make you weak. It will not be easy, yet we hope to do it.

We shall try. We may not think quite so well of you, if we do it; but

we shall always call you a brave. A man is not a stone. We can all

feel, and when we have done all that is in our power, no one can do

more. It is so with Injins; we think it must be so with pale-faces.

We mean to try and see how it is."

The corporal understood very little of this harangue, though he

perfectly comprehended the preparations of the saplings, and Bough of

the Oak's allusions to _them_. He was in a cold sweat at the thought,

for resolute as he was, he foresaw sufferings that human fortitude

could hardly endure. In this state of the case, and in the frame of

mind he was in, he had recourse to an expedient of which he had often

heard, and which he thought might now be practised to some advantage.

It was to open upon the savages with abuse, and to exasperate them, by

taunts and sarcasm, to such a degree as might induce some of the weaker

members of the tribe to dispatch him on the spot. As the corporal,

with the perspective of the saplings before his eyes, manifested a good

deal of ingenuity on this occasion, we shall record some of his efforts.

"D'ye call yourselves chiefs and warriors?" he began, upon a pretty

high key. "I call ye squaws! There is not a man among ye. Dogs would

be the best name. You are poor Injins. A long time ago, the

pale-faces came here in two or three little canoes. They were but a

handful, and you were plentier than prairie wolves. Your bark could be

heard throughout the land. Well, what did this handful of pale-faces?

It drove your fathers before them, until they got all the best of the

hunting-grounds. Not an Injin of you all, now, ever get down on the

shores of the great salt lake, unless to sell brooms and baskets, and

then he goes sneaking like a wolf after a sheep. You have forgotten

how clams and oysters taste. Your fathers had as many of them as they

could eat; but not one of you ever tasted them. The pale-faces eat

them all. If an Injun asked for one, they would throw the shell at his

head, and call him a dog.

"Do you think that my chiefs would hang one of you between two such

miserable saplings as these? No! They would scorn to practice such

pitiful torture. They would bring the tops of two tall pines together,

trees a hundred and fifty feet high, and put their prisoner on the

topmost boughs, for the crows and ravens to pick his eyes out. But you

are miserable Injins! You know nothing. If you know'd any better,

would you act such poor torment ag'in' a great brave? I spit upon ye,

and call you squaws. The pale-faces have made women of ye. They have

taken out your hearts, and put pieces of dog's flesh in their places."

Here the corporal, who delivered himself with an animation suited to

his language, was obliged to pause, literally for want of breath.

Singular as it may seem, this tirade excited great admiration among the

savages. It is true, that very few understood what was said; perhaps

no one understood _all_, but the manner was thought to be admirable.

When some of the language was interpreted, a deep but smothered

resentment was felt; more especially at the taunts touching the manner

in which the whites had overcome the red men. Truth is hard to be

borne, and the individual, or people, who will treat a thousand

injurious lies with contempt, feel all their ire aroused at one

reproach that has its foundation in fact. Nevertheless, the anger that

the corporal's words did, in truth, awaken, was successfully repressed,

and he had the disappointment of seeing that his life was spared for

the torture.

"Brother," said Bough of the Oak, again placing himself before the

captive, "you have a stout heart. It is made of stone, and not of

flesh. If our hearts be of dog's meat, yours is of stone. What you

say is true. The pale-faces _did_ come at first in two or three

canoes, and there were but few of them. We are ashamed, for it is

true. A few pale-faces drove toward the setting sun many Injins. But

we cannot be driven any further. We mean to stop here, and begin to

take all the scalps we can. A great chief, who belongs to no one

tribe, but belongs to all tribes, who speaks all tongues, has been sent

by the Great Spirit to arouse us. He has done it. You know him. He

came from the head of the lake with you, and kept his eye on your

scalp. He has meant to take it from the first. He waited only for an

opportunity. That opportunity has come, and we now mean to do as he

has told us we ought to do. This is right. Squaws are in a hurry;

warriors know how to wait. We would kill you at once, and hang your

scalp on our pole, but it would not be right. We wish to do what is

right. If we _are_ poor Injins, and know but little, we know what is

right. It is right to torment so great a brave, and we mean to do it.

It is only just to you to do so. An old warrior who has seen so many

enemies, and who has so big a heart, ought not to be knocked in the

head like a pappoose or a squaw. It is his right to be tormented. We

are getting ready, and shall soon begin. If my brother can tell us a

new way of tormenting, we are willing to try it. Should we not make

out as well as pale-faces, my brother will remember who we are. We

mean to do our best, and we hope to make his heart soft. If we do

this, great will be our honor. Should we not do it, we cannot help it.

We shall try."

It was now the corporal's turn to put in a rebutter. This he did

without any failure in will or performance. By this time he was so

well warmed as to think or care very little about the saplings, and to

overlook the pain they might occasion.

"Dogs can do little but bark; 'specially Injin dogs," he said. "Injins

themselves are little better than their own dogs. They can bark, but

they don't know how to bite. You have many great chiefs here. Some

are panthers, and some bears, and some buffaloes; but where are your

weasels? I have fit you now these twenty years, and never have I known

ye to stand up to the baggonet. It's not Injin natur' to do _that_."

Here the corporal, without knowing it, made some such reproach to the

aboriginal warriors of America as the English used to throw into the

teeth of ourselves--that of not standing up to a weapon which neither

party possessed. It was matter of great triumph that the Americans

would not stand the charge of the bayonet at the renowned fight on

Breed's, for instance, when it is well known that not one man in five

among the colonists had any such weapon at all to "stand up" with. A

different story was told at Guildford, and Stony Point, and Eutaw, and

Bennington, and Bemis' Heights, and fifty other places that might be

named, after the troops were furnished with bayonets. _Then_ it was

found that the Americans could use them as well as others, and so might

it have proved with the red men, though their discipline, or mode of

fighting, scarce admitted of such systematic charges. All this,

however, the corporal overlooked, much as if he were a regular

historian who was writing to make out a case.

"Harkee, brother, since you _will_ call me brother; though, Heaven be

praised, not a drop of nigger or Injin blood runs in _my_ veins,"

resumed the corporal. "Harken, friend redskin, answer me one thing.

Did you ever hear of such a man as Mad Anthony? He was the tickler for

your infernal tribes! You pulled no saplings together for him. He put

you up with 'the long-knives and leather-stockings,' and you outrun his

fleetest horses. I was with him, and saw more naked backs than naked

faces among your people, that day. Your Great Bear got a rap on his

nose that sent him to his village yelping like a cur."

Again was the corporal compelled to stop to take breath. The allusion

to Wayne, and his defeat of the Indians, excited so much ire, that

several hands grasped knives and tomahawks, and one arrow was actually

drawn nearly to the head; but the frown of Bear's Meat prevented any

outbreak, or actual violence. It was deemed prudent, however, to put

an end to this scene, lest the straightforward corporal, who laid it on

heavily, and who had so much to say about Indian defeats, might

actually succeed in touching some festering wound that would bring him

to his death at once. It was, accordingly, determined to proceed with

the torture of the saplings without further delay.

The corporal was removed accordingly, and placed between the two bended

trees, which were kept together by withes around their tops. An arm of

the captive was bound tightly at the wrist to the top of each tree, so

that his limbs were to act as the only tie between the saplings, as

soon as the withes should be cut. The Indians now worked in silence,

and the matter was getting to be much too serious for the corporal to

indulge in any more words. The cold sweat returned, and many an

anxious glance was cast by the veteran on the fell preparations. Still

he maintained appearances, and when all was ready, not a man there was

aware of the agony of dread which prevailed in the breast of the

victim. It was not death that he feared as much as suffering. A few

minutes, the corporal well knew, would make the pain intolerable, while

he saw no hope of putting a speedy end to his existence. A man might

live hours in such a situation. Then it was that the teachings of

childhood were revived in the bosom of this hardened man, and he

remembered the Being that died for _him_, in common with the rest of

the human race, on the tree. The seeming similarity of his own

execution struck his imagination, and brought a tardy but faint

recollection of those lessons that had lost most of their efficacy in

the wickedness and impiety of camps. His soul struggled for relief in

that direction, but the present scene was too absorbing to admit of its

lifting itself so far above his humanity.

"Warrior of the pale-faces," said Bough of the Oak, "we are going to

cut the withe. You will then be where a brave man will want all his

courage. If you are firm, we will do you honor; if you faint and

screech, our young men will laugh at you. This is the way with Injins.

They honor braves; they point the finger at cowards."

Here a sign was made by Bear's Meat, and a warrior raised the tomahawk

that was to separate the fastenings. His hand was in the very act of

descending, when the crack of a rifle was heard, and a little smoke

rose out of the thicket, near the spot where the bee-hunter and the

corporal, himself, had remained so long hid, on the occasion of the

council first held in that place. The tomahawk fell, however, the

withes were parted, and up flew the saplings, with a violence that

threatened to tear the arms of the victim out of their sockets.

The Indians listened, expecting the screeches and groans;--they gazed,

hoping to witness the writhings of their captive. But they were

disappointed. There hung the body, its arms distended, still holding

the tops of the saplings bowed, but not a sign of life was seen. A

small line of blood trickled down the forehead, and above it was the

nearly imperceptible hole made by the passage of a bullet. The head

itself had fallen forward, and a little on one shoulder. The corporal

had escaped the torments reserved for him, by this friendly blow.

UNCLE JIM AND UNCLE BILLY

By BRET HARTE

From "Stories in Light and Shadow." Copyright 1888 and 1889 by Bret

Harte.

They were partners. The avuncular title was bestowed on them by Cedar

Camp, possibly in recognition of a certain matured good humor, quite

distinct from the spasmodic exuberant spirits of its other members, and

possibly from what, to its youthful sense, seemed their advanced

ages--which must have been at least forty! They had also set habits

even in their improvidence, lost incalculable and unpayable sums to

each other over euchre regularly every evening, and inspected their

sluice-boxes punctually every Saturday for repairs--which they never

made. They even got to resemble each other, after the fashion of old

married couples, or, rather, as in matrimonial partnerships, were

subject to the domination of the stronger character; although in their

case it is to be feared that it was the feminine Uncle

Billy--enthusiastic, imaginative, and loquacious--who swayed the

masculine, steady-going, and practical Uncle Jim. They had lived in

the camp since its foundation in 1849; there seemed to be no reason why

they should not remain there until its inevitable evolution into a

mining-town. The younger members might leave through restless ambition

or a desire for change or novelty; they were subject to no such

trifling mutation. Yet Cedar Camp was surprised one day to hear that

Uncle Billy was going away.

The rain was softly falling on the bark thatch of the cabin with a

muffled murmur, like a sound heard through sleep. The southwest trades

were warm even at that altitude, as the open door testified, although a

fire of pine bark was flickering on the adobe hearth and striking out

answering fires from the freshly scoured culinary utensils on the rude

sideboard, which Uncle Jim had cleaned that morning with his usual

serious persistency. Their best clothes, which were interchangeable

and worn alternately by each other on festal occasions, hung on the

walls, which were covered with a coarse sailcloth canvas instead of

lath-and-plaster, and were diversified by pictures from illustrated

papers and stains from the exterior weather. Two "bunks," like ships'

berths,--an upper and lower one,--occupied the gable-end of this single

apartment, and on beds of coarse sacking, filled with dry moss, were

carefully rolled their respective blankets and pillows. They were the

only articles not used in common, and whose individuality was respected.

Uncle Jim, who had been sitting before the fire, rose as the square

bulk of his partner appeared at the doorway with an armful of wood for

the evening stove. By that sign he knew it was nine o'clock: for the

last six years Uncle Billy had regularly brought in the wood at that

hour, and Uncle Jim had as regularly closed the door after him, and set

out their single table, containing a greasy pack of cards taken from

its drawer, a bottle of whiskey, and two tin drinking-cups. To this

was added a ragged memorandum-book and a stick of pencil. The two men

drew their stools to the table.

"Hol' on a minit," said Uncle Billy.

His partner laid down the cards as Uncle Billy extracted from his

pocket a pill-box, and, opening it, gravely took a pill. This was

clearly an innovation on their regular proceedings, for Uncle Billy was

always in perfect health.

"What's this for?" asked Uncle Jim half scornfully.

"Agin ager."

"You ain't got no ager," said Uncle Jim, with the assurance of intimate

cognizance of his partner's physical condition.

"But it's a pow'ful preventive! Quinine! Saw this box at Riley's

store, and laid out a quarter on it. We kin keep it here, comfortable,

for evenings. It's mighty soothin' arter a man's done a hard day's

work on the river-bar. Take one."

Uncle Jim gravely took a pill and swallowed it, and handed the box back

to his partner.

"We'll leave it on the table, sociable like, in case any of the boys

come in," said Uncle Billy, taking up the cards. "Well. How de we

stand?"

Uncle Jim consulted the memorandum-book. "You were owin' me sixty-two

thousand dollars on the last game, and the limit's seventy-five

thousand!"

"Je whillikins!" ejaculated Uncle Billy. "Let me see."

He examined the book, feebly attempted to challenge the additions, but

with no effect on the total. "We oughter hev made the limit a hundred

thousand," he said seriously; "seventy-five thousand is only triflin'

in a game like ours. And you've set down my claim at Angel's?" he

continued.

"I allowed you ten thousand dollars for that," said Uncle Jim, with

equal gravity, "and it's a fancy price too."

The claim in question being an unprospected hillside ten miles distant,

which Uncle Jim had never seen, and Uncle Billy had not visited for

years, the statement was probably true; nevertheless, Uncle Billy

retorted:--

"Ye kin never tell how these things will pan out. Why, only this

mornin' I was taking a turn round Shot Up Hill, that ye know is just

rotten with quartz and gold, and I couldn't help thinkin' how much it

was like my ole claim at Angel's. I must take a day off to go on there

and strike a pick in it, if only for luck."

Suddenly he paused and said, "Strange, ain't it, you should speak of it

to-night? Now I call that queer!"

He laid down his cards and gazed mysteriously at his companion. Uncle

Jim knew perfectly that Uncle Billy had regularly once a week for many

years declared his final determination to go over to Angel's and

prospect his claim, yet nevertheless he half responded to his partner's

suggestion of mystery, and a look of fatuous wonder crept into his

eyes. But he contented himself by saying cautiously, "You spoke of it

first."

"That's the more sing'lar," said Uncle Billy confidently. "And I've

been thinking about it, and kinder seeing myself thar all day. It's

mighty queer!" He got up and began to rummage among some torn and

coverless books in the corner.

"Where's that 'Dream Book' gone to?"

"The Carson boys borrowed it," replied Uncle Jim.

"Anyhow, yours wasn't no dream--only a kind o' vision, and the book

don't take no stock in visions." Nevertheless, he watched his partner

with some sympathy, and added, "That reminds me that I had a dream the

other night of being in 'Frisco at a small hotel, with heaps o' money,

and all the time being sort o' scared and bewildered over it."

"No?" queried his partner eagerly yet reproachfully. "You never let on

anything about it to _me_! It's mighty queer you havin' these strange

feelin's, for I've had 'em myself. And only to-night, comin' up from

the spring, I saw two crows hopping in the trail, and I says, 'If I see

another, it's luck, sure!' And you'll think I'm lyin', but when I went

to the wood-pile just now there was the _third_ one sittin' up on a log

as plain as I see you. Tell 'e what folks ken laugh--but that's just

what Jim Filgee saw the night before he made the big strike!"

They were both smiling, yet with an underlying credulity and

seriousness as singularly pathetic as it seemed incongruous to their

years and intelligence. Small wonder, however, that in their

occupation and environment--living daily in an atmosphere of hope,

expectation, and chance, looking forward each morning to the blind

stroke of a pick that might bring fortune--they should see signs in

nature and hear mystic voices in the trackless woods that surrounded

them. Still less strange that they were peculiarly susceptible to the

more recognized diversions of chance, and were gamblers on the turning

of a card who trusted to the revelation of a shovelful of upturned

earth.

It was quite natural, therefore, that they should return from their

abstract form of divination to the table and their cards. But they

were scarcely seated before they heard a crackling step in the brush

outside, and the free latch of their door was lifted. A younger member

of the camp entered. He uttered a peevish "Halloo!" which might have

passed for a greeting, or might have been a slight protest at finding

the door closed, drew the stool from which Uncle Jim had just risen

before the fire, shook his wet clothes like a Newfoundland dog, and sat

down. Yet he was by no means churlish nor coarse-looking, and this act

was rather one of easy-going, selfish, youthful familiarity than of

rudeness. The cabin of Uncles Billy and Jim was considered a public

right or "common" of the camp. Conferences between individual miners

were appointed there. "I'll meet you at Uncle Billy's" was a common

tryst. Added to this was a tacit claim upon the partners' arbitrative

powers, or the equal right to request them to step outside if the

interviews were of a private nature. Yet there was never any objection

on the part of the partners, and to-night there was not a shadow of

resentment of this intrusion in the patient, good-humored, tolerant

eyes of Uncles Jim and Billy as they gazed at their guest. Perhaps

there was a slight gleam of relief in Uncle Jim's when he found that

the guest was unaccompanied by any one, and that it was not a tryst.

It would have been unpleasant for the two partners to have stayed out

in the rain while their guests were exchanging private confidences in

their cabin. While there might have been no limit to their good will,

there might have been some to their capacity for exposure.

Uncle Jim drew a huge log from beside the hearth and sat on the driest

end of it, while their guest occupied the stool. The young man,

without turning away from his discontented, peevish brooding over the

fire, vaguely reached backward for the whiskey-bottle and Uncle Billy's

tin cup, to which he was assisted by the latter's hospitable hand. But

on setting down the cup his eye caught sight of the pill-box.

"Wot's that?" he said, with gloomy scorn. "Rat poison?"

"Quinine pills--agin ager," said Uncle Jim. "The newest thing out.

Keeps out damp like Injin-rubber! Take one to follow yer whiskey. Me

and Uncle Billy wouldn't think o' settin' down, quiet like, in the

evening arter work, without 'em. Take one--ye'r welcome! We keep 'em

out here for the boys."

Accustomed as the partners were to adopt and wear each other's opinions

before folks, as they did each other's clothing, Uncle Billy was,

nevertheless, astonished and delighted at Uncle Jim's enthusiasm over

_his_ pills. The guest took one and swallowed it.

"Mighty bitter!" he said, glancing at his hosts with the quick

Californian suspicion of some practical joke. But the honest faces of

the partners reassured him.

"That bitterness ye taste," said Uncle Jim quickly, "is whar the

thing's gittin' in its work. Sorter sickenin' the malaria--and kinder

water-proofin' the insides all to onct and at the same lick! Don't yer

see? Put another in yer vest pocket; you'll be cryin' for 'em like a

child afore ye get home. Thar! Well, how's things agoin' on your

claim, Dick? Boomin', eh?"

The guest raised his head and turned it sufficiently to fling his

answer back over his shoulder at his hosts. "I don't know what _you'd_

call 'boomin','" he said gloomily; "I suppose you two men sitting here

comfortably by the fire, without caring whether school keeps or not,

would call two feet of backwater over one's claim 'boomin';' I reckon

_you'd_ consider a hundred and fifty feet of sluicing carried away, and

drifting to thunder down the South Fork, something in the way of

advertising to your old camp! I suppose _you'd_ think it was an

inducement to investors! I shouldn't wonder," he added still more

gloomily, as a sudden dash of rain down the wide-throated chimney

dropped in his tin cup--"and it would be just like you two chaps,

sittin' there gormandizing over your quinine--if yer said this rain

that's lasted three weeks was something to be proud of!"

It was the cheerful and the satisfying custom of the rest of the camp,

for no reason whatever, to hold Uncle Jim and Uncle Billy responsible

for its present location, its vicissitudes, the weather, or any

convulsion of nature; and it was equally the partners' habit, for no

reason whatever, to accept these animadversions and apologize.

"It's a rain that's soft and mellowin'," said Uncle Billy gently, "and

supplin' to the sinews and muscles. Did ye ever notice,

Jim"--ostentatiously to his partner--"did ye ever notice that you get

inter a kind o' sweaty lather workin' in it? Sorter openin' to the

pores!"

"Fetches 'em every time," said Uncle Billy. "Better nor fancy soap."

Their guest laughed bitterly. "Well, I'm going to leave it to you. I

reckon to cut the whole concern to-morrow, and 'lite' out for something

new. It can't be worse than this."

The two partners looked grieved, albeit they were accustomed to these

outbursts. Everybody who thought of going away from Cedar Camp used it

first as a threat to these patient men, after the fashion of runaway

nephews, or made an exemplary scene of their going.

"Better think twice afore ye go," said Uncle Billy.

"I've seen worse weather afore ye came," said Uncle Jim slowly. "Water

all over the Bar; the mud so deep ye couldn't get to Angel's for a sack

o' flour, and we had to grub on pine nuts and jackass-rabbits. And

yet--we stuck by the camp, and here we are!"

The mild answer apparently goaded their guest to fury. He rose from

his seat, threw back his long dripping hair from his handsome but

querulous face, and scattered a few drops on the partners. "Yes,

that's just it. That's what gets me! Here you stick, and here you

are! And here you'll stick and rust until you starve or drown! Here

you are,--two men who ought to be out in the world, playing your part

as grown men,---stuck here like children 'playing house' in the woods;

playing work in your wretched mud-pie ditches, and content. Two men

not so old that you mightn't be taking your part in the fun of the

world, going to balls or theatres, or paying attention to girls, and

yet old enough to have married and have your families around you,

content to stay in this God-forsaken place; old bachelors, pigging

together like poor-house paupers. That's what gets me! Say you like

_it_? Say you expect by hanging on to make a strike--and what does

that amount to? What are _your_ chances? How many of us have made, or

are making, more than grub wages? Say you're willing to share and

share alike as you do--have you got enough for two? Aren't you

actually living off each other? Aren't you grinding each other down,

choking each other's struggles, as you sink together deeper and deeper

in the mud of this cussed camp? And while you're doing this, aren't

you, by your age and position here, holding out hopes to others that

you know cannot be fulfilled?"

Accustomed as they were to the half-querulous, half-humorous, but

always extravagant, criticism of the others, there was something so new

in this arraignment of themselves that the partners for a moment sat

silent. There was a slight flush on Uncle Billy's cheek, there was a

slight paleness on Uncle Jim's. He was the first to reply. But he did

so with a certain dignity which neither his partner nor their guest had

ever seen on his face before.

"As it's _our_ fire that's warmed ye up like this, Dick Bullen," he

said, slowly rising, with his hand resting on Uncle Billy's shoulder,

"and as it's _our_ whiskey that's loosened your tongue, I reckon we

must put up with what ye'r' saying, just as we've managed to put up

with our own way o' living, and not quo'll with ye under our own roof."

The young fellow saw the change in Uncle Jim's face and quickly

extended his hand, with an apologetic backward shake of his long hair.

"Hang it all, old man," he said, with a laugh of mingled contrition and

amusement, "you mustn't mind what I said just now. I've been so

worried thinking of things about _myself_ and, maybe, a little about

you, that I quite forgot I hadn't a call to preach to anybody--least of

all to you. So we part friends, Uncle Jim, and you too, Uncle Billy,

and you'll forget what I said. In fact, I don't know why I spoke at

all--only I was passing your claim just now, and wondering how much

longer your old sluice-boxes would hold out, and where in thunder you'd

get others when they caved in! I reckon that sent me off. That's all,

old chap!"

Uncle Billy's face broke into a beaming smile of relief, and it was his

hand that first grasped his guest's; Uncle Jim quickly followed with as

honest a pressure, but with eyes that did not seem to be looking at

Bullen, though all trace of resentment had died out of them. He walked

to the door with him, again shook hands, but remained looking out in

the darkness some time after Dick Bullen's tangled hair and broad

shoulders had disappeared.

Meantime, Uncle Billy had resumed his seat and was chuckling and

reminiscent as he cleaned out his pipe.

"Kinder reminds me of Jo Sharp, when he was cleaned out at poker by his

own partners in his own cabin, comin' up here and bedevilin' us about

it! What was it you lint him?"

But Uncle Jim did not reply; and Uncle Billy, taking up the cards,

began to shuffle them, smiling vaguely, yet at the same time somewhat

painfully. "Arter all, Dick was mighty cut up about what he said, and

I felt kinder sorry for him. And, you know, I rather cotton to a man

that speaks his mind. Sorter clears him out, you know, of all the

slumgullion that's in him. It's just like washin' out a pan o'

prospecting: you pour in the water, and keep slushing it round and

round, and out comes first the mud and dirt, and then the gravel, and

then the black sand, and then--it's all out, and there's a speck o'

gold glistenin' at the bottom!"

"Then you think there _was_ suthin' in what he said?" said Uncle Jim,

facing about slowly.

An odd tone in his voice made Uncle Billy look up. "No," he said

quickly, shying with the instinct of an easy pleasure-loving nature

from a possible grave situation. "No, I don't think he ever got the

color! But wot are ye moonin' about for? Ain't ye goin' to play?

It's mor' 'n half past nine now."

Thus adjured, Uncle Jim moved up to the table and sat down, while Uncle

Billy dealt the cards, turning up the Jack or right bower--but

_without_ that exclamation of delight which always accompanied his good

fortune, nor did Uncle Jim respond with the usual corresponding

simulation of deep disgust. Such a circumstance had not occurred

before in the history of their partnership. They both played in

silence--a silence only interrupted by a larger splash of raindrops

down the chimney.

"We orter put a couple of stones on the chimney-top, edgewise, like

Jack Curtis does. It keeps out the rain without interferin' with the

draft," said Uncle Billy musingly.

"What's the use if"--

"If what?" said Uncle Billy quietly.

"If we don't make it broader," said Uncle Jim half wearily.

They both stared at the chimney, but Uncle Jim's eye followed the wall

around to the bunks. There were many discolorations on the canvas, and

a picture of the Goddess of Liberty from an illustrated paper had

broken out in a kind of damp, measly eruption. "I'll stick that funny

handbill of the 'Washin' Soda' I got at the grocery store the other day

right over the Liberty gal. It's a mighty perty woman washin' with

short sleeves," said Uncle Billy. "That's the comfort of them picters,

you kin always get somethin' new, and it adds thickness to the wall."

Uncle Jim went back to the cards in silence. After a moment he rose

again, and hung his overcoat against the door.

"Wind's comin' in," he said briefly.

"Yes," said Uncle Billy cheerfully, "but it wouldn't seem nat'ral if

there wasn't that crack in the door to let the sunlight in o' mornin's.

Makes a kind o' sundial, you know. When the streak o' light's in that

corner, I says 'six o'clock!' when it's across the chimney I say

'seven!' and so 'tis!"

It certainly had grown chilly, and the wind was rising. The candle

guttered and flickered; the embers on the hearth brightened

occasionally, as if trying to dispel the gathering shadows, but always

ineffectually. The game was frequently interrupted by the necessity of

stirring the fire. After an interval of gloom, in which each partner

successively drew the candle to his side to examine his cards, Uncle

Jim said:--

"Say?"

"Well!" responded Uncle Billy.

"Are you sure you saw that third crow on the wood-pile?"

"Sure as I see you now--and a darned sight plainer. Why?"

"Nothin', I was just thinkin'. Look here! How do we stand now?"

Uncle Billy was still losing. "Nevertheless," he said cheerfully, "I'm

owin' you a matter of sixty thousand dollars."

Uncle Jim examined the book abstractedly. "Suppose," he said slowly,

but without looking at his partner, "suppose, as it's gettin' late now,

we play for my half share of the claim agin the limit--seventy

thousand--to square up."

"Your half share!" repeated Uncle Billy, with amused incredulity.

"My half share of the claim,--of this yer house, you know,--one-half of

all that Dick Bullen calls our rotten starvation property," reiterated

Uncle Jim, with a half smile.

Uncle Billy laughed. It was a novel idea; it was, of course, "all in

the air," like the rest of their game, yet even then he had an odd

feeling that he would have liked Dick Bullen to have known it. "Wade

in, old pard," he said. "I'm on it."

Uncle Jim lit another candle to reinforce the fading light, and the

deal fell to Uncle Billy. He turned up Jack of clubs. He also turned

a little redder as he took up his cards, looked at them, and glanced

hastily at his partner. "It's no use playing," he said. "Look here!"

He laid down his cards on the table. They were the ace, king and queen

of clubs, and Jack of spades,--or left bower,--which, with the

turned-up Jack of clubs,--or right bower,--comprised all the winning

cards!

"By jingo! If we'd been playin' fourhanded, say you an' me agin some

other ducks, we'd have made 'four' in that deal, and h'isted some

money--eh?" and his eyes sparkled. Uncle Jim, also, had a slight

tremulous light in his own.

"Oh no! I didn't see no three crows this afternoon," added Uncle Billy

gleefully, as his partner, in turn, began to shuffle the cards with

laborious and conscientious exactitude. Then dealing, he turned up a

heart for trumps. Uncle Billy took up his cards one by one, but when

he had finished his face had become as pale as it had been red before.

"What's the matter?" said Uncle Jim quickly, his own face growing white.

Uncle Billy slowly and with breathless awe laid down his cards, face up

on the table. It was exactly the same sequence _in hearts_, with the

knave of diamonds added. He could again take every trick.

They stared at each other with vacant faces and a half-drawn smile of

fear. They could hear the wind moaning in the trees beyond; there was

a sudden rattling at the door. Uncle Billy started to his feet, but

Uncle Jim caught his arm. "_Don't leave the cards_! It's only the

wind; sit down," he said in a low awe-hushed voice, "it's your deal;

you were two before, and two now, that makes you four; you've only one

point to make to win the game. Go on."

They both poured out a cup of whiskey, smiling vaguely, yet with a

certain terror in their eyes. Their hands were cold; the cards slipped

from Uncle Billy's benumbed fingers; when he had shuffled them he

passed them to his partner to shuffle them also, but did not speak.

When Uncle Jim had shuffled them methodically he handed them back

fatefully to his partner. Uncle Billy dealt them with a trembling

hand. He turned up a club. "If you are sure of these tricks you know

you've won," said Uncle Jim in a voice that was scarcely audible.

Uncle Billy did not reply, but tremulously laid down the ace and right

and left bowers.

He had won!

A feeling of relief came over each, and they laughed hysterically and

discordantly. Ridiculous and childish as their contest might have

seemed to a looker-on, to each the tension had been as great as that of

the greatest gambler, without the gambler's trained restraint,

coolness, and composure. Uncle Billy nervously took up the cards again.

"Don't," said Uncle Jim gravely; "it's no use--the luck's gone now."

"Just one more deal," pleaded his partner.

Uncle Jim looked at the fire, Uncle Billy hastily dealt, and threw the

two hands face up on the table. They were the ordinary average cards.

He dealt again, with the same result. "I told you so," said Uncle Jim,

without looking up.

It certainly seemed a tame performance after their wonderful hands, and

after another trial Uncle Billy threw the cards aside and drew his

stool before the fire. "Mighty queer, warn't it?" he said, with

reminiscent awe. "Three times running. Do you know, I felt a kind o'

creepy feelin' down my back all the time. Criky! what luck! None of

the boys would believe it if we told 'em--least of all that Dick

Bullen, who don't believe in luck, anyway. Wonder what he'd have said!

and, Lord! how he'd have looked! Wall! what are you starin' so for?"

Uncle Jim had faced around, and was gazing at Uncle Billy's

good-humored, simple face. "Nothin'!" he said briefly, and his eyes

again sought the fire.

"Then don't look as if you was seein' suthin'--you give me the creeps,"

returned Uncle Billy a little petulantly. "Let's turn in, afore the

fire goes out!"

The fateful cards were put back into the drawer, the table shoved

against the wall. The operation of undressing was quickly got over,

the clothes they wore being put on top of their blankets. Uncle Billy

yawned, "I wonder what kind of a dream I'll have to-night--it oughter

be suthin' to explain that luck." This was his "good-night" to his

partner. In a few moments he was sound asleep.

Not so Uncle Jim. He heard the wind gradually go down, and in the

oppressive silence that followed could detect the deep breathing of his

companion and the far-off yelp of a coyote. His eyesight becoming

accustomed to the semi-darkness, broken only by the scintillation of

the dying embers of their fire, he could take in every detail of their

sordid cabin and the rude environment in which they had lived so long.

The dismal patches on the bark roof, the wretched makeshifts of each

day, the dreary prolongation of discomfort, were all plain to him now,

without the sanguine hope that had made them bearable. And when he

shut his eyes upon them, it was only to travel in fancy down the steep

mountain side that he had trodden so often to the dreary claim on the

overflowed river, to the heaps of "tailings" that encumbered it, like

empty shells of the hollow, profitless days spent there, which they

were always waiting for the stroke of good fortune to clear away. He

saw again the rotten "sluicing," through whose hopeless rifts and holes

even their scant daily earnings had become scantier. At last he arose,

and with infinite gentleness let himself down from his berth without

disturbing his sleeping partner, and wrapping himself in his blanket,

went to the door, which he noiselessly opened. From the position of a

few stars that were glittering in the northern sky he knew that it was

yet scarcely midnight; there were still long, restless hours before the

day! In the feverish state into which he had gradually worked himself

it seemed to him impossible to wait the coming of the dawn.

But he was mistaken. For even as he stood there all nature seemed to

invade his humble cabin with its free and fragrant breath, and invest

him with its great companionship. He felt again, in that breath, that

strange sense of freedom, that mystic touch of partnership with the

birds and beasts, the shrubs and trees, in this greater home before

him. It was this vague communion that had kept him there, that still

held these world-sick, weary workers in their rude cabins on the slopes

around him; and he felt upon his brow that balm that had nightly lulled

him and them to sleep and forgetfulness. He closed the door, turned

away, crept as noiselessly as before into his bunk again, and presently

fell into a profound slumber.

But when Uncle Billy awoke the next morning he saw it was late; for the

sun, piercing the crack of the closed door, was sending a pencil of

light across the cold hearth, like a match to rekindle its dead embers.

His first thought was of his strange luck the night before, and of

disappointment that he had not had the dream of divination that he had

looked for. He sprang to the floor, but as he stood upright his glance

fell on Uncle Jim's bunk. It was empty. Not only that, but his

_blankets_--Uncle Jim's own particular blankets--_were gone_!

A sudden revelation of his partner's manner the night before struck him

now with the cruelty of a blow; a sudden intelligence, perhaps the very

divination he had sought, flashed upon him like lightning! He glanced

wildly around the cabin. The table was drawn out from the wall a

little ostentatiously, as if to catch his eye. On it was lying the

stained chamois-skin purse in which they had kept the few grains of

gold remaining from their last week's "clean up." The grains had been

carefully divided, and half had been taken! But near it lay the little

memorandum-book, open, with the stick of pencil lying across it. A

deep line was drawn across the page on which was recorded their

imaginary extravagant gains and losses, even to the entry of Uncle

Jim's half share of the claim which he had risked and lost! Underneath

were hurriedly scrawled the words:--

"Settled by _your_ luck, last night, old pard.--James Foster."

It was nearly a month before Cedar Camp was convinced that Uncle Billy

and Uncle Jim had dissolved partnership. Pride had prevented Uncle

Billy from revealing his suspicions of the truth, or of relating the

events that preceded Uncle Jim's clandestine flight, and Dick Bullen

had gone to Sacramento by stage-coach the same morning. He briefly

gave out that his partner had been called to San Francisco on important

business of their own, that indeed might necessitate his own removal

there later. In this he was singularly assisted by a letter from the

absent Jim, dated at San Francisco, begging him not to be anxious about

his success, as he had hopes of presently entering a profitable

business, but with no further allusions to his precipitate departure,

nor any suggestion of a reason for it. For two or three days Uncle

Billy was staggered and bewildered; in his profound simplicity he

wondered if his extraordinary good fortune that night had made him deaf

to some explanation of his partner's, or, more terrible, if he had

shown some "low" and incredible intimation of taking his partner's

extravagant bet as real and binding. In this distress he wrote to

Uncle Jim an appealing and apologetic letter, albeit somewhat

incoherent and inaccurate, and bristling with misspelling, camp slang,

and old partnership jibes. But to this elaborate epistle he received

only Uncle Jim's repeated assurances of his own bright prospects, and

his hopes that his old partner would be more fortunate, single-handed,

on the old claim. For a whole week or two Uncle Billy sulked, but his

invincible optimism and good humor got the better of him, and he

thought only of his old partner's good fortune. He wrote him

regularly, but always to one address--a box at the San Francisco

post-office, which to the simple-minded Uncle Billy suggested a certain

official importance. To these letters Uncle Jim responded regularly

but briefly.

From a certain intuitive pride in his partner and his affection, Uncle

Billy did not show these letters openly to the camp, although he spoke

freely of his former partner's promising future, and even read them

short extracts. It is needless to say that the camp did not accept

Uncle Billy's story with unsuspecting confidence. On the contrary, a

hundred surmises, humorous or serious, but always extravagant, were

afloat in Cedar Camp. The partners had quarreled over their

clothes--Uncle Jim, who was taller than Uncle Billy, had refused to

wear his partner's trousers. They had quarreled over cards--Uncle Jim

had discovered that Uncle Billy was in possession of a "cold deck," or

marked pack. They had quarreled over Uncle Billy's carelessness in

grinding up half a box of "bilious pills" in the morning's coffee. A

gloomily imaginative mule-driver had darkly suggested that, as no one

had really seen Uncle Jim leave the camp, he was still there, and his

bones would yet be found in one of the ditches; while a still more

credulous miner averred that what he had thought was the cry of a

screech-owl the night previous to Uncle Jim's disappearance, might have

been the agonized utterance of that murdered man. It was highly

characteristic of that camp--and, indeed, of others in California--that

nobody, not even the ingenious theorists themselves, believed their

story, and that no one took the slightest pains to verify or disprove

it. Happily, Uncle Billy never knew it, and moved all unconsciously in

this atmosphere of burlesque suspicion. And then a singular change

took place in the attitude of the camp towards him and the disrupted

partnership. Hitherto, for no reason whatever, all had agreed to put

the blame upon Billy--possibly because he was present to receive it.

As days passed that slight reticence and dejection in his manner, which

they had at first attributed to remorse and a guilty conscience, now

began to tell as absurdly in his favor. Here was poor Uncle Billy

toiling through the ditches, while his selfish partner was lolling in

the lap of luxury in San Francisco! Uncle Billy's glowing accounts of

Uncle Jim's success only contributed to the sympathy now fully given in

his behalf and their execration of the absconding partner. It was

proposed at Bigg's store that a letter expressing the indignation of

the camp over his heartless conduct to his late partner, William Fall,

should be forwarded to him. Condolences were offered to Uncle Billy,

and uncouth attempts were made to cheer his loneliness. A procession

of half a dozen men twice a week to his cabin, carrying their own

whiskey and winding up with a "stag dance" before the premises, was

sufficient to lighten his eclipsed gayety and remind him of a happier

past. "Surprise" working parties visited his claim with spasmodic

essays towards helping him, and great good humor and hilarity

prevailed. It was not an unusual thing for an honest miner to arise

from an idle gathering in some cabin and excuse himself with the remark

that he "reckoned he'd put in an hour's work in Uncle Billy's

tailings!" And yet, as before, it was very improbable if any of these

reckless benefactors _really_ believed in their own earnestness or in

the gravity of the situation. Indeed, a kind of hopeful cynicism ran

through their performances. "Like as not, Uncle Billy is still in

'cahoots' (_i.e._, shares) with his old pard, and is just laughin' at

us as he's sendin' him accounts of our tomfoolin'."

And so the winter passed and the rains, and the days of cloudless skies

and chill starlit nights began. There were still freshets from the

snow reservoirs piled high in the Sierran passes, and the Bar was

flooded, but that passed too, and only the sunshine remained.

Monotonous as the seasons were, there was a faint movement in the camp

with the stirring of the sap in the pines and cedars. And then, one

day, there was a strange excitement on the Bar. Men were seen running

hither and thither, but mainly gathering in a crowd on Uncle Billy's

claim, that still retained the old partners' names in "The Fall and

Foster." To add to the excitement; there was the quickly repeated

report of a revolver, to all appearance aimlessly exploded in the air

by some one on the outskirts of the assemblage. As the crowd opened,

Uncle Billy appeared, pale, hysterical, breathless, and staggering a

little under the back-slapping and hand-shaking of the whole camp. For

Uncle Billy had "struck it rich"--had just discovered a "pocket,"

roughly estimated to be worth fifteen thousand dollars!

Although in that supreme moment he missed the face of his old partner,

he could not help seeing the unaffected delight and happiness shining

in the eyes of all who surrounded him. It was characteristic of that

sanguine but uncertain life that success and good fortune brought no

jealousy nor envy to the unfortunate, but was rather a promise and

prophecy of the fulfillment of their own hopes. The gold was

there--Nature but yielded up her secret. There was no prescribed limit

to her bounty. So strong was this conviction that a long-suffering but

still hopeful miner, in the enthusiasm of the moment, stooped down and

patted a large boulder with the apostrophic "Good old gal!"

Then followed a night of jubilee, a next morning of hurried

consultation with a mining expert and speculator lured to the camp by

the good tidings; and then the very next night--to the utter

astonishment of Cedar Camp--Uncle Billy, with a draft for twenty

thousand dollars in his pocket, started for San Francisco, and took

leave of his claim and the camp forever!

* * * * *

When Uncle Billy landed at the wharves of San Francisco he was a little

bewildered. The Golden Gate beyond was obliterated by the incoming

sea-fog, which had also roofed in the whole city, and lights already

glittered along the gray streets that climbed the grayer sand-hills.

As a Western man, brought up by inland rivers, he was fascinated and

thrilled by the tall-masted sea-going ships, and he felt a strange

sense of the remoter mysterious ocean, which he had never seen. But he

was impressed and startled by smartly dressed men and women, the

passing of carriages, and a sudden conviction that he was strange and

foreign to what he saw. It had been his cherished intention to call

upon his old partner in his working clothes, and then clap down on the

table before him a draft for ten thousand dollars as _his_ share of

their old claim. But in the face of these brilliant strangers a sudden

and unexpected timidity came upon him. He had heard of a cheap popular

hotel, much frequented by the returning gold-miner, who entered its

hospitable doors--which held an easy access to shops--and emerged in a

few hours a gorgeous butterfly of fashion, leaving his old chrysalis

behind him. Thence he inquired his way; hence he afterwards issued in

garments glaringly new and ill fitting. But he had not sacrificed his

beard, and there was still something fine and original in his handsome

weak face that overcame the cheap convention of his clothes. Making

his way to the post-office, he was again discomfited by the great size

of the building, and bewildered by the array of little square

letter-boxes behind glass which occupied one whole wall, and an equal

number of opaque and locked wooden ones legibly numbered. His heart

leaped; he remembered the number, and before him was a window with a

clerk behind it. Uncle Billy leaned forward.

"Kin you tell me if the man that box 690 b'longs to is in?"

The clerk stared, made him repeat the question, and then turned away.

But he returned almost instantly, with two or three grinning heads

besides his own, apparently set behind his shoulders. Uncle Billy was

again asked to repeat his question. He did so.

"Why don't you go and see if 690 is in the box?" said the first clerk,

turning with affected asperity to one of the others.

The clerk went away, returned, and said with singular gravity, "He was

there a moment ago, but he's gone out to stretch his legs. It's rather

crampin' at first; and he can't stand it more than ten hours at a time,

you know."

But simplicity has its limits. Uncle Billy had already guessed his

real error in believing his partner was officially connected with the

building; his cheek had flushed and then paled again. The pupils of

his blue eyes had contracted into suggestive black points. "Ef you'll

let me in at that winder, young fellers," he said, with equal gravity,

"I'll show yer how I kin make _you_ small enough to go in a box without

crampin'! But I only wanted to know where Jim Foster _lived_."

At which the first clerk became perfunctory again, but civil. "A

letter left in his box would get you that information," he said, "and

here's paper and pencil to write it now."

Uncle Billy took the paper and began to write, "Just got here. Come

and see me at"-- He paused. A brilliant idea had struck him; he could

impress both his old partner and the upstarts at the window; he would

put in the name of the latest "swell" hotel in San Francisco, said to

be a fairy dream of opulence. He added "The Oriental," and without

folding the paper shoved it in the window.

"Don't you want an envelope?" asked the clerk.

"Put a stamp on the corner of it," responded Uncle Billy, laying down a

coin, "and she'll go through." The clerk smiled, but affixed the

stamp, and Uncle Billy turned away.

But it was a short-lived triumph. The disappointment at finding Uncle

Jim's address conveyed no idea of his habitation seemed to remove him

farther away, and lose his identity in the great city. Besides, he

must now make good his own address, and seek rooms at the Oriental. He

went thither. The furniture and decorations, even in these early days

of hotel-building in San Francisco, were extravagant and overstrained,

and Uncle Billy felt lost and lonely in his strange surroundings. But

he took a handsome suite of rooms, paid for them in advance on the

spot, and then, half frightened, walked out of them to ramble vaguely

through the city in the feverish hope of meeting his old partner. At

night his inquietude increased; he could not face the long row of

tables in the pillared dining-room, filled with smartly dressed men and

women; he evaded his bedroom, with its brocaded satin chairs and its

gilt bedstead, and fled to his modest lodgings at the Good Cheer House,

and appeased his hunger at its cheap restaurant, in the company of

retired miners and freshly arrived Eastern emigrants. Two or three

days passed thus in this quaint double existence. Three or four times

a day he would enter the gorgeous Oriental with affected ease and

carelessness, demand his key from the hotel-clerk, ask for the letter

that did not come, go to his room, gaze vaguely from his window on the

passing crowd below for the partner he could not find, and then return

to the Good Cheer House for rest and sustenance. On the fourth day he

received a short note from Uncle Jim; it was couched in his usual

sanguine but brief and business-like style. He was very sorry, but

important and profitable business took him out of town, but he trusted

to return soon and welcome his old partner. He was also, for the first

time, jocose, and hoped that Uncle Billy would not "see all the sights"

before he, Uncle Jim, returned. Disappointing as this procrastination

was to Uncle Billy, a gleam of hope irradiated it: the letter had

bridged over that gulf which seemed to yawn between them at the

post-office. His old partner had accepted his visit to San Francisco

without question, and had alluded to a renewal of their old intimacy.

For Uncle Billy, with all his trustful simplicity, had been tortured by

two harrowing doubts: one, whether Uncle Jim in his new-fledged

smartness as a "city" man--such as he saw in the streets--would care

for his rough companionship; the other, whether he, Uncle Billy, ought

not to tell him at once of his changed fortune. But, like all weak,

unreasoning men, he clung desperately to a detail--he could not forego

his old idea of astounding Uncle Jim by giving him his share of the

"strike" as his first intimation of it, and he doubted, with more

reason perhaps, if Jim would see him after he had heard of his good

fortune. For Uncle Billy had still a frightened recollection of Uncle

Jim's sudden stroke for independence, and that rigid punctiliousness

which had made him doggedly accept the responsibility of his

extravagant stake at euchre.

With a view of educating himself for Uncle Jim's company, he "saw the

sights" of San Francisco--as an over-grown and somewhat stupid child

might have seen them--with great curiosity, but little contamination or

corruption. But I think he was chiefly pleased with watching the

arrival of the Sacramento and Stockton steamers at the wharves, in the

hope of discovering his old partner among the passengers on the

gang-plank. Here, with his old superstitious tendency and gambler's

instinct, he would augur great success in his search that day if any

one of the passengers bore the least resemblance to Uncle Jim, if a man

or woman stepped off first, or if he met a single person's questioning

eye. Indeed, this got to be the real occupation of the day, which he

would on no account have omitted, and to a certain extent revived each

day in his mind the morning's work of their old partnership. He would

say to himself, "It's time to go and look up Jim," and put off what he

was pleased to think were his pleasures until this act of duty was

accomplished.

In this singleness of purpose he made very few and no entangling

acquaintances, nor did he impart to any one the secret of his fortune,

loyally reserving it for his partner's first knowledge. To a man of

his natural frankness and simplicity this was a great trial, and was,

perhaps, a crucial test of his devotion. When he gave up his rooms at

the Oriental--as not necessary after his partner's absence--he sent a

letter, with his humble address, to the mysterious lock-box of his

partner without fear or false shame. He would explain it all when they

met. But he sometimes treated unlucky and returning miners to a dinner

and a visit to the gallery of some theatre. Yet while he had an active

sympathy with and understanding of the humblest, Uncle Billy, who for

many years had done his own and his partner's washing, scrubbing,

mending, and cooking, and saw no degradation in it, was somewhat

inconsistently irritated by menial functions in men, and although he

gave extravagantly to waiters, and threw a dollar to the

crossing-sweeper, there was always a certain shy avoidance of them in

his manner. Coming from the theatre one night Uncle Billy was,

however, seriously concerned by one of these crossing-sweepers turning

hastily before them and being knocked down by a passing carriage. The

man rose and limped hurriedly away; but Uncle Billy was amazed and

still more irritated to hear from his companion that this kind of

menial occupation was often profitable, and that at some of the

principal crossings the sweepers were already rich men.

But a few days later brought a more notable event to Uncle Billy. One

afternoon in Montgomery Street he recognized in one of its smartly

dressed frequenters a man who had a few years before been a member of

Cedar Camp. Uncle Billy's childish delight at this meeting, which

seemed to bridge over his old partner's absence, was, however, only

half responded to by the ex-miner, and then somewhat satirically. In

the fulness of his emotion, Uncle Billy confided to him that he was

seeking his old partner, Jim Foster, and, reticent of his own good

fortune, spoke glowingly of his partner's brilliant expectations, but

deplored his inability to find him. And just now he was away on

important business. "I reckon he's got back," said the man dryly. "I

didn't know he had a lock-box at the post-office, but I can give you

his other address. He lives at the Presidio, at Washerwoman's Bay."

He stopped and looked with a satirical smile at Uncle Billy. But the

latter, familiar with Californian mining-camp nomenclature, saw nothing

strange in it, and merely repeated his companion's words.

"You'll find him there! Good-by! So long! Sorry I'm in a hurry,"

said the ex-miner, and hurried away.

Uncle Billy was too delighted with the prospect of a speedy meeting

with Uncle Jim to resent his former associate's supercilious haste, or

even to wonder why Uncle Jim had not informed him that he had returned.

It was not the first time that he had felt how wide was the gulf

between himself and these others, and the thought drew him closer to

his old partner, as well as his old idea, as it was now possible to

surprise him with the draft. But as he was going to surprise him in

his own boarding-house--probably a handsome one--Uncle Billy reflected

that he would do so in a certain style.

He accordingly went to a livery stable and ordered a landau and pair,

with a negro coachman. Seated in it, in his best and most ill-fitting

clothes, he asked the coachman to take him to the Presidio, and leaned

back in the cushions as they drove through the streets with such an

expression of beaming gratification on his good-humored face that the

passers-by smiled at the equipage and its extravagant occupant. To

them it seemed the not unusual sight of the successful miner "on a

spree." To the unsophisticated Uncle Billy their smiling seemed only a

natural and kindly recognition of his happiness, and he nodded and

smiled back to them with unsuspecting candor and innocent playfulness.

"These yer 'Frisco fellers ain't _all_ slouches, you bet," he added to

himself half aloud, at the back of the grinning coachman.

Their way led through well-built streets to the outskirts, or rather to

that portion of the city which seemed to have been overwhelmed by

shifting sand-dunes, from which half-submerged fences and even low

houses barely marked the foe of highway. The resistless trade-winds

which had marked this change blew keenly in his face and slightly

chilled his ardor. At a turn in the road the sea came im sight, and

sloping towards it the great Cemetery of Lone Mountain, with white

shafts and marbles that glittered in the sunlight like the sails of

ships waiting to be launched down that slope into the Eternal Ocean.

Uncle Billy shuddered. What if it had been his fate to seek Uncle Jim

there!

"Dar's yar Presidio!" said the negro coachman a few moments later,

pointing with his whip, "and dar's yar Wash'woman's Bay!"

Uncle Billy stared. A huge quadrangular fort of stone with a flag

flying above its battlements stood at a little distance, pressed

against the rocks, as if beating back the encroaching surges; between

him and the fort but farther inland was a lagoon with a number of

dilapidated, rudely patched cabins or cottages, like stranded driftwood

around its shore. But there was no mansion, no block of houses, no

street, not another habitation or dwelling to be seen!

Uncle Billy's first shock of astonishment was succeeded by a feeling of

relief. He had secretly dreaded a meeting with his old partner in the

"haunts of fashion"; whatever was the cause that made Uncle Jim seek

this obscure retirement affected him but slightly; he even was thrilled

with a vague memory of the old shiftless camp they had both abandoned.

A certain instinct---he knew not why, or less still that it might be

one of delicacy--made him alight before they reached the first house.

Bidding the carriage wait; Uncle Billy entered, and was informed by a

blowzy Irish laundress at a tub that Jim Foster, or "Arkansaw Jim,"

lived at the fourth shanty "beyant." He was at home, for "he'd

shprained his fut." Uncle Billy hurried on, stopped before the door of

a shanty scarcely less rude than their old cabin, and half timidly

pushed it open. A growling voice from within, a figure that rose

hurriedly, leaning on a stick, with an attempt to fly, but in the same

moment sank back in a chair with an hysterical laugh--and Uncle Billy

stood in the presence of his old partner! But as Uncle Billy darted

forward, Uncle Jim rose again, and this time with outstretched hands.

Uncle Billy caught them, and in one supreme pressure seemed to pour out

and transfuse his whole simple soul into his partner's. There they

swayed each other backwards and forwards and sideways by their still

clasped hands, until Uncle Billy, with a glance at Uncle Jim's bandaged

ankle, shoved him by sheer force down into his chair.

Uncle Jim was first to speak. "Caught, b'gosh! I mighter known you'd

be as big a fool as me! Look you, Billy Fall, do you know what you've

done? You've druv me out er the streets whar I was makin' an honest

livin', by day, on three crossin's! Yes," he laughed forgivingly, "you

druv me out er it, by day, jest because I reckoned that some time I

might run into your darned fool face,"--another laugh and a grasp of

the hand,--"and then, b'gosh! not content with ruinin' my business _by

day_, when I took to it at night; _you_ took to goin' out at nights

too, and so put a stopper on me there! Shall I tell you what else you

did? Well, by the holy poker! I owe this sprained foot to your darned

foolishness and my own, for it was getting away from _you_ one night

after the theatre that I got run into and run over!

"Ye see," he went on, unconscious of Uncle Billy's paling face, and

with a _naïvete_, though perhaps not a delicacy, equal to Uncle Billy's

own, "I had to play roots on you with that lock-box business and these

letters, because I did not want you to know what I was up to, for you

mightn't like it, and might think it was lowerin' to the old firm,

don't yer see? I wouldn't hev gone into it, but I was played out, and

I don't mind tellin' you _now_, old man, that when I wrote you that

first chipper letter from the lock-box I hedn't eat anythin' for two

days. But it's all right _now_," with a laugh. "Then I got into this

business--thinkin' it nothin'--jest the very last thing--and do you

know, old pard, I couldn't tell anybody but you--and, in fact, I kept

it jest to tell you--I've made nine hundred and fifty-six dollars!

Yes, sir, _nine hundred and fifty-six dollars_! solid money, in Adams

and Co.'s Bank, just out er my trade."

"Wot trade?" asked Uncle Billy.

Uncle Jim pointed to the corner, where stood a large, heavy

crossing-sweeper's broom. "That trade."

"Certingly," said Uncle Billy, with a quick laugh.

"It's an outdoor trade," said Uncle Jim gravely, but with no suggestion

of awkwardness or apology in his manner; "and thar ain't much

difference between sweepin' a crossin' with a broom and raking over

tailing with a rake, _only--wot ye get_ with a broom _you have handed

to ye_, and ye don't have to _pick it up and fish it out er_ the wet

rocks and sluice-gushin'; and it's a heap less tiring to the back."

"Certingly, you bet!" said Uncle Billy enthusiastically, yet with a

certain nervous abstraction.

"I'm glad ye say so; for yer see I didn't know at first how you'd

tumble to my doing it, until I'd made my pile. And ef I hadn't made

it, I wouldn't hev set eyes on ye agin, old pard--never!"

"Do you mind my runnin' out a minit?" said Uncle Billy, rising. "You

see, I've got a friend waitin' for me outside--and I reckon"--he

stammered--"I'll jest run out and send him off, so I kin talk comf'ble

to ye."

"Ye ain't got anybody you're owin' money to," said Uncle Jim earnestly,

"anybody follerin' you to get paid, eh? For I kin jest set down right

here and write ye off a check on the bank!"

"No," said Uncle Billy. He slipped out of the door, and ran like a

deer to the waiting carriage. Thrusting a twenty-dollar gold-piece

into the coachman's hand, he said hoarsely, "I ain't wantin' that

kerridge just now; ye ken drive around and hev a private jamboree all

by yourself the rest of the afternoon, and then come and wait for me at

the top o' the hill yonder."

Thus quit of his gorgeous equipage, he hurried back to Uncle Jim,

grasping his ten thousand dollar draft in his pocket. He was nervous,

he was frightened, but he must get rid of the draft and his story, and

have it over. But before he could speak he was unexpectedly stopped by

Uncle Jim.

"Now, look yer, Billy boy!" said Uncle Jim; "I got suthin' to say to

ye--and I might as well clear it off my mind at once, and then we can

start fair agin. Now," he went on, with a half laugh, "wasn't it

enough for _me_ to go on pretendin' I was rich and doing a big

business, and gettin' up that lock-box dodge so as ye couldn't find out

whar I hung out and what I was doin'--wasn't it enough for me to go on

with all this play-actin', but _you_, you long-legged or'nary cuss!

must get up and go to lyin' and play-acting too!"

"_Me_ play-actin'? _Me_ lyin'?" gasped Uncle Billy.

Uncle Jim leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Do you think you

could fool _me_? Do you think I didn't see through your little game o'

going to that swell Oriental, jest as if ye'd made a big strike--and

all the while ye wasn't sleepin' 'or eatin' there, but jest wrastlin'

yer hash and having a roll down at the Good Cheer! Do you think I

didn't spy on ye and find that out? Oh, you long-eared jackass-rabbit!"

He laughed until the tears came into his eyes, and Uncle Billy laughed

too, albeit until the laugh on his face became quite fixed, and he was

fain to bury his head in his handkerchief.

"And yet," said Uncle Jim, with a deep breath, "gosh! I was

frightened--jest for a minit! I thought, mebbe, you _had_ made a big

strike--when I got your first letter--and I made up my mind what I'd

do! And then I remembered you was jest that kind of an open sluice

that couldn't keep anythin' to yourself, and you'd have been sure to

have yelled it out to _me_ the first thing. So I waited. And I found

you out, you old sinner!" He reached forward and dug Uncle Billy in

the ribs.

"What _would_ you hev done?" said Uncle Billy, after an hysterical

collapse.

Uncle Jim's face grew grave again. "I'd hev--I'd--hev cl'ared out!

Out er 'Frisco! out er Californy! out er Ameriky! I couldn't have stud

it! Don't think I would hev begrudged ye yer luck! No man would have

been gladder than me." He leaned forward again, and laid his hand

caressingly upon his partner's arm--"Don't think I'd hev wanted to take

a penny of it--but I--thar! I _couldn't_ hev stood up under it! To

hev had _you_, you, you that I left behind, comin' down here rollin' in

wealth and new partners and friends, and arrive upon me--and this

shonty--and"--he threw towards the corner of the room a terrible

gesture, none the less terrible that it was illogical and inconsequent,

to all that had gone before--"and--and--_that broom_!"

There was a dead silence in the room. With it Uncle Billy seemed to

feel himself again transported to the homely cabin at Cedar Camp and

that fateful night, with his partner's strange, determined face before

him as then. He even fancied that he heard the roaring of the pines

without, and did not know that it was the distant sea.

But after a minute Uncle Jim resumed:--

"Of course you've made a little raise somehow, or you wouldn't be here?"

"Yes," said Uncle Billy eagerly. "Yes! I've got"-- He stopped and

stammered. "I've got--a--few hundreds."

"Oh, oh!" said Uncle Jim cheerfully. He paused, and then added

earnestly, "I say! You ain't got left, over and above your d--d

foolishness at the Oriental, as much as five hundred dollars?"

"I've got," said Uncle Billy, blushing a little over his first

deliberate and affected lie, "I've got at least five hundred and

seventy-two dollars. Yes," he added tentatively, gazing anxiously at

his partner, "I've got at least that."

"Jee whillikins!" said Uncle Jim, with a laugh. Then eagerly, "Look

here, pard! Then we're on velvet! I've got _nine_ hundred; put your

_five_ with that, and I know a little ranch that we can get for twelve

hundred. That's what I've been savin' up for--that's my little game!

No more minin' for _me_. It's got a shanty twice as big as our old

cabin, nigh on a hundred acres, and two mustangs. We can run it with

two Chinamen and jest make it howl! Wot yer say--eh?" He extended his

hand.

"I'm in," said Uncle Billy, radiantly grasping Uncle Jim's. But his

smile faded, and his clear simple brow wrinkled in two lines.

Happily Uncle Jim did not notice it. "Now, then, old pard," he said

brightly, "we'll have a gay old time to-night--one of our jamborees!

I've got some whisky here and a deck o' cards, and we'll have a little

game, you understand, but not for 'keeps' now! No, siree; we'll play

for beans."

A sudden light illuminated Uncle Billy's face again, but he said, with

a grim desperation, "Not to-night! I've got to go into town. That

fren' o' mine expects me to go to the theayter, don't ye see? But I'll

be out to-morrow at sun-up, and we'll fix up this thing o' the ranch."

"Seems to me you're kinder stuck on this fren'," grunted Uncle Jim.

Uncle Billy's heart bounded at his partner's jealousy. "No--but I

_must_, you know," he returned, with a faint laugh.

"I say--it ain't a _her_, is it?" said Uncle Jim.

Uncle Billy achieved a diabolical wink and a creditable blush at his

lie.

"Billy!"

"Jim!"

And under cover of this festive gallantry Uncle Billy escaped. He ran

through the gathering darkness, and toiled up the shifting sands to the

top of the hill, where he found the carriage waiting.

"Wot," said Uncle Billy in a low confidential tone to the coachman,

"wot do you 'Frisco fellers allow to be the best, biggest, and riskiest

gamblin'-saloon here? Suthin' high-toned, you know?"

The negro grinned. It was the usual case of the extravagant

spendthrift miner, though perhaps he had expected a different question

and order.

"Dey is de 'Polka,' de 'El Dorado,' and de 'Arcade' saloon, boss," he

said, flicking his whip meditatively. "Most gents from de mines prefer

de 'Polka,' for dey is dancing wid de gals frown in. But de real

_prima facie_ place for gents who go for buckin' agin de tiger and

straight-out gamblin' is de Arcade.'"

"Drive there like thunder!" said Uncle Billy, leaping into the carriage.

* * * * *

True to his word, Uncle Billy was at his partner's shanty early the

next morning. He looked a little tired, but happy, and had brought a

draft with him for five hundred and seventy-five dollars, which he

explained was the total of his capital. Uncle Jim was overjoyed. They

would start for Napa that very day, and conclude the purchase of the

ranch; Uncle Jim's sprained foot was a sufficient reason for his giving

up his present vocation, which he could also sell at a small profit.

His domestic arrangements were very simple; there was nothing to take

with him--there was everything to leave behind. And that afternoon, at

sunset, the two reunited partners were seated on the deck of the Napa

boat as she swung into the stream.

Uncle Billy was gazing over the railing with a look of abstracted

relief towards the Golden Gate, where the sinking sun seemed to be

drawing towards him in the ocean a golden stream that was forever

pouring from the Bay and the three-hilled city beside it. What Uncle

Billy was thinking of, or what the picture suggested to him, did not

transpire; for Uncle Jim, who, emboldened by his holiday, was

luxuriating in an evening paper, suddenly uttered a long-drawn whistle,

and moved closer to his abstracted partner. "Look yer," he said,

pointing to a paragraph he had evidently just read, "just you listen to

this, and see if we ain't lucky, you and me, to be jest wot we

air--trustin' to our own hard work--and not thinkin' o' 'strikes' and

'fortins.' Jest unbutton yer ears, Billy, while I reel off this yer

thing I've jest struck in the paper, and see what d--d fools some men

kin make o' themselves. And that theer reporter wot wrote it--must hev

seed it reely!"

Uncle Jim cleared his throat, and holding the paper close to his eyes

read aloud slowly:--

"'A scene of excitement that recalled the palmy days of '49 was

witnessed last night at the Arcade Saloon. A stranger, who might have

belonged to that reckless epoch, and who bore every evidence of being a

successful Pike County miner out on a "spree," appeared at one of the

tables with a negro coachman bearing two heavy bags of gold. Selecting

a faro-bank as his base of operations, he began to bet heavily and with

apparent recklessness, until his play excited the breathless attention

of every one. In a few moments he had won a sum variously estimated at

from eighty to a hundred thousand dollars. A rumor went round the room

that it was a concerted attempt to "break the bank" rather than the

drunken freak of a Western miner, dazzled by some successful strike.

To this theory the man's careless and indifferent bearing towards his

extraordinary gains lent great credence. The attempt, if such it was,

however, was unsuccessful. After winning ten times in succession the

luck turned, and the unfortunate "bucket" was cleared out not only of

his gains, but of his original investment, which may be placed roughly

at twenty thousand dollars. This extraordinary play was witnessed by a

crowd of excited players, who were less impressed by even the magnitude

of the stakes than the perfect _sang froid_ and recklessness of the

player, who, it is said, at the close of the game tossed a

twenty-dollar gold-piece to the banker and smilingly withdrew. The man

was not recognized by any of the habitués of the place.'

"There!" said Uncle Jim, as he hurriedly slurred over the French

substantive at the close, "did ye ever see such God-forsaken

foolishness?"

Uncle Billy lifted his abstracted eyes from the current, still pouring

its unreturning gold into the sulking sun, and said, with a deprecatory

smile, "Never!"

Nor even in the days of prosperity that visited the Great Wheat Ranch

of "Fall and Foster" did he ever tell his secret to his partner.

THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX

By H. W. LONGFELLOW

Do not trust thy body with a physician. He'll make thy foolish bones

go without flesh in a fortnight, and thy soul walk without a body in a

se'nnight after.--_Shirley_.

You must know, gentlemen, that there lived some years ago, in the city

of Périgueux, an honest notary public, the descendant of a very ancient

and broken-down family, and the occupant of one of those old

weather-beaten tenements which remind you of the times of your

great-grandfather. He was a man of an unoffending, quiet disposition;

the father of a family, though not the head of it--for in that family

"the hen overcrowed the cock," and the neighbors, when they spake of

the notary, shrugged their shoulders, and exclaimed, "Poor fellow! his

spurs want sharpening." In fine--you understand me, gentlemen--he was

hen-pecked.

Well, finding no peace at home, he sought it elsewhere, as was very

natural for him to do; and at length discovered a place of rest far

beyond the cares and clamors of domestic life. This was a little _café

estaminet_ a short way out of the city, whither he repaired every

evening to smoke his pipe, drink sugar-water, and play his favorite

game of domino. There he met the boon companions he most loved; heard

all the floating chit-chat of the day; laughed when he was in a merry

mood; found consolation when he was sad; and at all times gave vent to

his opinions without fear of being snubbed short by a flat

contradiction.

Now, the notary's bosom friend was a dealer in claret and cognac, who

lived about a league from the city, and always passed his evenings at

the _estaminet_. He was a gross, corpulent fellow, raised from a

full-blooded Gascon breed, and sired by a comic actor of some

reputation in his way. He was remarkable for nothing but his

good-humor, his love of cards, and a strong propensity to test the

quality of his own liquors by comparing them with those sold at other

places.

As evil communications corrupt good manners, the bad practices of the

wine-dealer won insensibly upon the worthy notary; and before he was

aware of it, he found himself weaned from domino and sugar-water, and

addicted to piquet and spiced wine. Indeed, it not infrequently

happened that, after a long session at the _estaminet_, the two friends

grew so urbane that they would waste a full half-hour at the door in

friendly dispute which should conduct the other home.

Though this course of life agreed well enough with the sluggish,

phlegmatic temperament of the wine-dealer, it soon began to play the

very deuce with the more sensitive organization of the notary, and

finally put his nervous system completely out of tune. He lost his

appetite, became gaunt and haggard, and could get no sleep. Legions of

blue-devils haunted him by day, and by night strange faces peeped

through his bed-curtains and the nightmare snorted in his ear. The

worse he grew the more he smoked and tippled; and the more he smoked

and tippled, why, as a matter of course, the worse he grew. His wife

alternately stormed, remonstrated, entreated; but all in vain. She

made the house too hot for him--he retreated to the tavern; she broke

his long-stemmed pipes upon the andirons--he substituted a

short-stemmed one, which, for safe-keeping, he carried in his waistcoat

pocket.

Thus the unhappy notary ran gradually down at the heel. What with his

bad habits and his domestic grievances, he became completely hipped.

He imagined that he was going to die, and suffered in quick succession

all the diseases that ever beset mortal man. Every shooting pain was

an alarming symptom--every uneasy feeling after dinner a sure

prognostic of some mortal disease. In vain did his friends endeavor to

reason, and then to laugh him out of his strange whims; for when did

ever jest or reason cure a sick imagination? His only answer was, "Do

let me alone; I know better than you what ails me."

Well, gentlemen, things were in this state when, one afternoon in

December, as he sat moping in his office, wrapped in an overcoat, with

a cap on his head and his feet thrust into a pair of furred slippers, a

cabriolet stopped at the door, and a loud knocking without aroused him

from his gloomy revery. It was a message from his friend the

wine-dealer, who had been suddenly attacked with a violent fever, and,

growing worse and worse, bad now sent in the greatest haste for the

notary to draw up his last will and testament. The case was urgent,

and admitted neither excuse nor delay; and the notary, tying a

handkerchief round his face, and buttoning up to the chin, jumped into

the cabriolet, and suffered himself, though not without some dismal

presentiments and misgivings of heart, to be driven to the

wine-dealer's house.

When he arrived he found everything in the greatest confusion. On

entering the house he ran against the apothecary, who was coming down

stairs, with a face as long as your arm; and a few steps farther he met

the housekeeper--for the wine-dealer was an old bachelor--running up

and down, and wringing her hands, for fear that the good man should die

without making his will. He soon reached the chamber of his sick

friend, and found him tossing about in a paroxysm of fever, and calling

aloud for a draught of cold water. The notary shook his head; he

thought this a fatal symptom; for ten years back the wine-dealer had

been suffering under a species of hydrophobia, which seemed suddenly to

have left him.

When the sick man saw who stood by his bedside he stretched out his

hand and exclaimed:

"Ah! my dear friend! have you come at last? You see it is all over

with me. You have arrived just in time to draw up that--that passport

of mine. Ah, _grand diable_! how hot it is here! Water--water--water!

Will nobody give me a drop of cold water?"

As the case was an urgent one, the notary made no delay in getting his

papers in readiness; and in a short time the last will and testament of

the wine-dealer was drawn up in due form, the notary guiding the sick

man's hand as he scrawled his signature at the bottom.

As the evening wore away, the wine-dealer grew worse and worse, and at

length became delirious, mingling in his incoherent ravings the phrases

of the Credo and Paternoster with the shibboleth of the dram-shop and

the card-table.

"Take care! take care! There, now--_Credo in_--Pop! ting-a-ling-ling!

give me some of that. Cent-é-dize! Why, you old publican, this wine

is poisoned--I know your tricks!--_Sanctam ecclesiam Catholicam_--Well,

well, we shall see. Imbecile! to have a tierce-major and a seven of

hearts, and discard the seven! By St. Anthony, capot! You are

lurched--ha! ha! I told you so. I knew very well--there--there--don't

interrupt me--_Carnis resurrectionem et vitam eternam_!"

With these words upon his lips the poor wine-dealer expired. Meanwhile

the notary sat cowering over the fire, aghast at the fearful scene that

was passing before him, and now and then striving to keep up his

courage by a glass of cognac. Already his fears were on the alert, and

the idea of contagion flitted to and fro through his mind. In order to

quiet these thoughts of evil import, he lighted his pipe, and began to

prepare for returning home. At that moment the apothecary turned round

to him and said:

"Dreadful sickly time, this! The disorder seems to be spreading."

"What disorder?" exclaimed the notary, with a movement of surprise.

"Two died yesterday, and three to-day," continued the apothecary,

without answering the question. "Very sickly time, sir--very."

"But what disorder is it? What disease has carried off my friend here

so suddenly?"

"What disease? Why, scarlet fever, to be sure."

"And is it contagious?"

"Certainly."

"Then I am a dead man!" exclaimed the notary, putting his pipe into his

waistcoat-pocket, and beginning to walk up and down the room in

despair. "I am a dead man! Now don't deceive me--don't, will you?

What--what are the symptoms?"

"A sharp burning pain in the right side," said the apothecary.

"Oh, what a fool I was to come here!"

In vain did the housekeeper and the apothecary strive to pacify him--he

was not a man to be reasoned with; he answered that he knew his own

constitution better than they did, and insisted upon going home without

delay. Unfortunately, the vehicle he came in had returned to the city,

and the whole neighborhood was abed and asleep. What was to be done?

Nothing in the world but to take the apothecary's horse, which stood

hitched at the door, patiently waiting his master's will.

Well, gentlemen, as there was no remedy, our notary mounted this

raw-boned steed, and set forth upon his homeward journey. The night

was cold and gusty, and the wind right in his teeth. Overhead the

leaden clouds were beating to and fro, and through them the newly-risen

moon seemed to be tossing and drifting along like a cock-boat in the

surf; now swallowed up in a huge billow of cloud, and now lifted upon

its bosom and dashed with silvery spray. The trees by the roadside

groaned with a sound of evil omen, and before him lay three mortal

miles, beset with a thousand imaginary perils. Obedient to the whip

and spur, the steed leaped forward by fits and starts, now dashing away

in a tremendous gallop, and now relaxing into a long, hard trot; while

the rider, filled with symptoms of disease and dire presentiments of

death, urged him on, as if he were fleeing before the pestilence.

In this way, by dint of whistling and shouting, and beating right and

left, one mile of the fatal three was safely passed. The apprehensions

of the notary had so far subsided that he even suffered the poor horse

to walk up hill; but these apprehensions were suddenly revived again

with tenfold violence by a sharp pain in the right side, which seemed

to pierce him like a needle.

"It is upon me at last!" groaned the fear-stricken man. "Heaven be

merciful to me, the greatest of sinners! And must I die in a ditch,

after all? He! get up! get up!"

And away went horse and rider at full speed--hurry-scurry--up hill and

down--panting and blowing like a whirlwind. At every leap the pain in

the rider's side seemed to increase. At first it was a little point

like the prick of a needle--then it spread to the size of a half-franc

piece--then covered a place as large as the palm of your hand. It

gained upon him fast. The poor man groaned aloud in agony; faster and

faster sped the horse over the frozen ground--farther and farther

spread the pain over his side. To complete the dismal picture, the

storm commenced--snow mingled with rain. But snow and rain, and cold

were naught to him; for, though his arms and legs were frozen to

icicles, he felt it not; the fatal symptom was upon him; he was doomed

to die--not of cold, but of scarlet fever!

At length, he knew not how, more dead than alive, he reached the gate

of the city. A band of ill-bred dogs, that were serenading at a corner

of the street, seeing the notary dash by, joined in the hue and cry,

and ran barking and yelping at his heels. It was now late at night,

and only here and there a solitary lamp twinkled from an upper story.

But on went the notary, down this street and up that, till at last he

reached his own door. There was a light in his wife's bedchamber. The

good woman came to the window, alarmed at such a knocking, and howling,

and clattering at her door so late at night; and the notary was too

deeply absorbed in his own sorrows to observe that the lamp cast the

shadow of two heads on the window-curtain.

"Let me in! let me in! Quick! quick!" he exclaimed, almost breathless

from terror and fatigue.

"Who are you, that come to disturb a lone woman at this hour of the

night?" cried a sharp voice from above. "Begone about your business,

and let quiet people sleep."

"Oh, _diable, diable_! Come down and let me in! I am your husband.

Don't you know my voice? Quick, I beseech you; for I am dying here in

the street!"

After a few moments of delay and a few more words of parley, the door

was opened, and the notary stalked into his domicile, pale and haggard

in aspect, and as stiff and straight as a ghost. Cased from head to

heel in an armor of ice, as the glare of the lamp fell upon him he

looked like a knight-errant mailed in steel. But in one place his

armor was broken. On his right side was a circular spot as large as

the crown of your hat, and about as black!

"My dear wife!" he exclaimed, with more tenderness than he had

exhibited for many years, "reach me a chair. My hours are numbered. I

am a dead man!"

Alarmed at these exclamations, his wife stripped off his overcoat.

Something fell from beneath it, and was dashed to pieces on the hearth.

It was the notary's pipe. He placed his hand upon his side, and lo! it

was bare to the skin. Coat, waistcoat, and linen were burnt through

and through, and there was a blister on his side as large over as your

head!

The mystery was soon explained, symptom and all. The notary had put

his pipe into his pocket without knocking out the ashes! And so my

story ends.

"Is that all?" asked the radical, when the story-teller had finished.

"That is all."

"Well, what does your story prove?"

"That is more than I can tell. All I know is that the story is true."

"And did he die?" said the nice little man in gosling-green.

"Yes; he died afterward," replied the story-teller, rather annoyed at

the question.

"And what did he die of?" continued gosling-green, following him up.

"What did he die of? why, he died--of a sudden!"

THE WIDOW'S CRUISE

By F. R. STOCKTON

"From a Story-Teller's Pack." Copyright 1897 by Charles Scribner's

Sons.

The widow Ducket lived in a small village about ten miles from the New

Jersey seacoast. In this village she was born, here she had married

and buried her husband, and here she expected somebody to bury her; but

she was in no hurry for this, for she had scarcely reached middle age.

She was a tall woman with no apparent fat in her composition, and full

of activity, both muscular and mental.

She rose at six o'clock in the morning, cooked breakfast, set the

table, washed the dishes when the meal was over, milked, churned,

swept, washed, ironed, worked in her little garden, attended to the

flowers in the front yard and in the afternoon knitted and quilted and

sewed, and after tea she either went to see her neighbors or had them

come to see her. When it was really dark she lighted the lamp in her

parlor and read for an hour, and if it happened to be one of Miss Mary

Wilkins's books that she read she expressed doubts as to the realism of

the characters therein described.

These doubts she expressed to Dorcas Networthy, who was a small, plump

woman, with a solemn face, who had lived with the widow for many years

and who had become her devoted disciple. Whatever the widow did, that

also did Dorcas--not so well, for her heart told her she could never

expect to do that, but with a yearning anxiety to do everything as well

as she could.

She rose at five minutes past six, and in a subsidiary way she helped

to get the breakfast, to eat it, to wash up the dishes, to work in the

garden, to quilt, to sew, to visit and receive, and no one could have

tried harder than she did to keep awake when the widow read aloud in

the evening.

All these things happened every day in the summer-time, but in the

winter the widow and Dorcas cleared the snow from their little front

path instead of attending to the flowers, and in the evening they

lighted a fire as well as a lamp in the parlor.

Sometimes, however, something different happened, but this was not

often, only a few times in the year. One of the different things

occurred when Mrs. Ducket and Dorcas were sitting on their little front

porch one summer afternoon, one on the little bench on one side of the

door, and the other on the little bench on the other side of the door,

each waiting until she should hear the clock strike five, to prepare

tea. But it was not yet a quarter to five when a one-horse wagon

containing four men came slowly down the street. Dorcas first saw the

wagon, and she instantly stopped knitting.

"Mercy on me!" she exclaimed. "Whoever those people are, they are

strangers here, and they don't know where to stop, for they first go to

one side of the street and then to the other."

The widow looked around sharply. "Humph!" said she. "Those men are

sailormen. You might see that in a twinklin' of an eye. Sailormen

always drive that way, because that is the way they sail ships. They

first tack in one direction and then in another."

"Mr. Ducket didn't like the sea?" remarked Dorcas, for about the three

hundredth time.

"No, he didn't," answered the widow, for about the two hundred and

fiftieth time, for there had been occasions when she thought Dorcas put

this question inopportunely. "He hated it, and he was drowned in it

through trustin' a sailorman, which I never did nor shall. Do you

really believe those men are comin' here?"

"Upon my word I do!" said Dorcas, and her opinion was correct.

The wagon drew up in front of Mrs. Ducket's little white house, and the

two women sat rigidly, their hands in their laps, staring at the man

who drove.

This was an elderly personage with whitish hair, and under his chin a

thin whitish beard, which waved in the gentle breeze and gave Dorcas

the idea that his head was filled with hair which was leaking out from

below.

"Is this the Widow Ducket's?" inquired this elderly man, in a strong,

penetrating voice.

"That's my name," said the widow, and laying her knitting on the bench

beside her, she went to the gate. Dorcas also laid her knitting on the

bench beside her and went to the gate.

"I was told," said the elderly man, "at a house we touched at about a

quarter of a mile back, that the Widow Ducket's was the only house in

this village where there was any chance of me and my mates getting a

meal. We are four sailors, and we are making from the bay over to

Cuppertown, and that's eight miles ahead yet, and we are all pretty

sharp set for something to eat."

"This is the place," said the widow, "and I do give meals if there is

enough in the house and everything comes handy."

"Does everything come handy to-day?" said he.

"It does," said she, "and you can hitch your horse and come in; but I

haven't got anything for him."

"Oh, that's all right," said the man, "we brought along stores for him,

so we'll just make fast and then come in."

The two women hurried into the house in a state of bustling

preparation, for the furnishing of this meal meant one dollar in cash.

The four mariners, all elderly men, descended from the wagon, each one

scrambling with alacrity over a different wheel.

A box of broken ship-biscuit was brought out and put on the ground in

front of the horse, who immediately set himself to eating with great

satisfaction.

Tea was a little late that day, because there were six persons to

provide for instead of two, but it was a good meal, and after the four

seamen had washed their hands and faces at the pump in the back yard

and had wiped them on two towels furnished by Dorcas, they all came in

and sat down. Mrs. Ducket seated herself at the head of the table with

the dignity proper to the mistress of the house, and Dorcas seated

herself at the other end with the dignity proper to the disciple of the

mistress. No service was necessary, for everything that was to be

eaten or drunk was on the table.

When each of the elderly mariners had had as much bread and butter,

quickly baked soda-biscuit, dried beef, cold ham, cold tongue, and

preserved fruit of every variety known, as his storage capacity would

permit, the mariner in command, Captain Bird, pushed back his chair,

whereupon the other mariners pushed back their chairs.

"Madam," said Captain Bird, "we have all made a good meal, which didn't

need to be no better nor more of it, and we're satisfied; but that

horse out there has not had time to rest himself enough to go the eight

miles that lies ahead of us, so, if it's all the same to you and this

good lady, we'd like to sit on that front porch awhile and smoke our

pipes. I was a-looking at that porch when I came in, and I bethought

to myself what a rare good place it was to smoke a pipe in."

"There's pipes been smoked there," said the widow, rising, "and it can

be done again. Inside the house I don't allow tobacco, but on the

porch neither of us minds."

So the four captains betook themselves to the porch, two of them

seating themselves on the little bench on one side of the door, and two

of them on the little bench on the other side of the door, and lighted

their pipes.

"Shall we clear off the table and wash up the dishes," said Dorcas, "or

wait until they are gone?"

"We will wait until they are gone," said the widow, "for now that they

are here we might as well have a bit of a chat with them. When a

sailorman lights his pipe he is generally willin' to talk, but when he

is eatin' you can't get a word out of him."

Without thinking it necessary to ask permission, for the house belonged

to her, the Widow Ducket brought a chair and put it in the hall close

to the open front door, and Dorcas brought another chair and seated

herself by the side of the widow.

"Do all you sailormen belong down there at the bay?" asked Mrs. Ducket;

thus the conversation began, and in a few minutes it had reached a

point at which Captain Bird thought it proper to say that a great many

strange things happen to seamen sailing on the sea which lands-people

never dream of.

"Such as anything in particular?" asked the widow, at which remark

Dorcas clasped her hands in expectancy.

At this question each of the mariners took his pipe from his mouth and

gazed upon the floor in thought.

"There's a good many strange things happened to me and my mates at sea.

Would you and that other lady like to hear any of them?" asked Captain

Bird.

"We would like to hear them if they are true," said the widow.

"There's nothing happened to me and my mates that isn't true," said

Captain Bird, "and here is something that once happened to me: I was on

a whaling v'yage when a big sperm-whale, just as mad as a fiery bull,

came at us, head on, and struck the ship at the stern with such

tremendous force that his head crashed right through her timbers and he

went nearly half his length into her hull. The hold was mostly filled

with empty barrels, for we was just beginning our v'yage, and when he

had made kindling-wood of these there was room enough for him. We all

expected that it wouldn't take five minutes for the vessel to fill and

go to the bottom, and we made ready to take to the boats; but it turned

out we didn't need to take to no boats, for as fast as the water rushed

into the hold of the ship, that whale drank it and squirted it up

through the two blow-holes in the top of his head, and as there was an

open hatchway just over his head, the water all went into the sea

again, and that whale kept working day and night pumping the water out

until we beached the vessel on the island of Trinidad--the whale

helping us wonderful on our way over by the powerful working of his

tail, which, being outside in the water, acted like a propeller. I

don't believe anything stranger than that ever happened to a

whaling-ship."

"No," said the widow, "I don't believe anything ever did."

Captain Bird now looked at Captain Sanderson, and the latter took his

pipe out of his mouth and said that in all his sailing around the world

he had never known anything queerer than what happened to a big

steamship he chanced to be on, which ran into an island in a fog.

Everybody on board thought the ship was wrecked, but it had twin

screws, and was going at such a tremendous speed that it turned the

island entirely upside down and sailed over it, and he had heard tell

that even now people sailing over the spot could look down into the

water and see the roots of the trees and the cellars of the houses.

Captain Sanderson now put his pipe back into his mouth, and Captain

Burress took out his pipe.

"I was once in an obelisk-ship," said he, "that used to trade regular

between Egypt and New York, carrying obelisks. We had a big obelisk on

board. The way they ship obelisks is to make a hole in the stern of

the ship, and run the obelisk in, p'inted end foremost; and this

obelisk filled up nearly the whole of that ship from stern to bow. We

was about ten days out, and sailing afore a northeast gale with the

engines at full speed, when suddenly we spied breakers ahead, and our

captain saw we was about to run on a bank. Now if we hadn't had an

obelisk on board we might have sailed over that bank, but the captain

knew that with an obelisk on board we drew too much water for this, and

that we'd be wrecked in about fifty-five seconds if something wasn't

done quick. So he had to do something quick, and this is what he did:

He ordered all steam on, and drove slam-bang on that bank. Just as he

expected, we stopped so suddint that that big obelisk bounced for'ard,

its p'inted end foremost, and went clean through the bow and shot out

into the sea. The minute it did that the vessel was so lightened that

it rose in the water and we then steamed over the bank. There was one

man knocked overboard by the shock when we struck, but as soon as we

missed him we went back after him and we got him all right. You see,

when that obelisk went overboard, its butt-end, which was heaviest,

went down first, and when it touched the bottom it just stood there,

and as it was such a big obelisk there was about five and a half feet

of it stuck out of the water. The man who was knocked overboard he

just swum for that obelisk and he climbed up the hiryglyphics. It was

a mighty fine obelisk, and the Egyptians had cut their hiryglyphics

good and deep, so that the man could get hand and foot hold; and when

we got to him and took him off, he was sitting high and dry on the

p'inted end of that obelisk. It was a great pity about the obelisk,

for it was a good obelisk, but as I never heard the company tried to

raise it, I expect it is standing there yet."

Captain Burress now put his pipe back into his mouth and looked at

Captain Jenkinson, who removed his pipe and said:

"The queerest thing that ever happened to me was about a shark. We was

off the Banks, and the time of year was July, and the ice was coming

down, and we got in among a lot of it. Not far away, off our weather

bow, there was a little iceberg which had such a queerness about it

that the captain and three men went in a boat to look at it. The ice

was mighty clear ice, and you could see almost through it, and right

inside of it, not more than three feet above the water-line, and about

two feet, or maybe twenty inches, inside the ice, was a whopping big

shark, about fourteen feet long,--a regular man-eater,--frozen in there

hard and fast. 'Bless my soul,' said the captain, 'this is a wonderful

curiosity, and I'm going to git him out.' Just then one of the men

said he saw that shark wink, but the captain wouldn't believe him, for

he said that shark was frozen stiff and hard and couldn't wink. You

see, the captain had his own idees about things, and he knew that

whales was warm-blooded and would freeze if they was shut up in ice,

but he forgot that sharks was not whales and that they're cold-blooded

just like toads. And there is toads that has been shut up in rocks for

thousands of years, and they stayed alive, no matter how cold the place

was, because they was cold-blooded, and when the rocks was split, out

hopped the frog. But, as I said before, the captain forgot sharks was

cold-blooded, and he determined to git that one out.

"Now you both know, being housekeepers, that if you take a needle and

drive it into a hunk of ice you can split it. The captain had a

sail-needle with him, and so he drove it into the iceberg right

alongside of the shark and split it. Now the minute he did it he knew

that the man was right when he said he saw the shark wink, for it

flopped out of that iceberg quicker nor a flash of lightning."

"What a happy fish he must have been!" ejaculated Dorcas, forgetful of

precedent, so great was her emotion.

"Yes," said Captain Jenkinson, "it was a happy fish enough, but it

wasn't a happy captain. You see, that shark hadn't had anything to

eat, perhaps for a thousand years, until the captain came along with

his sail-needle."

"Surely you sailormen do see strange things," now said the widow, "and

the strangest thing about them is that they are true."

"Yes, indeed," said Dorcas, "that is the most wonderful thing."

"You wouldn't suppose," said the Widow Ducket, glancing from one bench

of mariners to the other, "that I have a sea-story to tell, but I have,

and if you like I will tell it to you."

Captain Bird looked up a little surprised.

"We would like to hear it--indeed, we would, madam," said he.

"Ay, ay!" said Captain Burress, and the two other mariners nodded.

"It was a good while ago," she said, "when I was living on the shore

near the head of the bay, that my husband was away and I was left alone

in the house. One mornin' my sister-in-law, who lived on the other

side of the bay, sent me word by a boy on a horse that she hadn't any

oil in the house to fill the lamp that she always put in the window to

light her husband home, who was a fisherman, and if I would send her

some by the boy she would pay me back as soon as they bought oil. The

boy said he would stop on his way home and take the oil to her, but he

never did stop, or perhaps he never went back, and about five o'clock I

began to get dreadfully worried, for I knew if that lamp wasn't in my

sister-in-law's window by dark she might be a widow before midnight.

So I said to myself, 'I've got to get that oil to her, no matter what

happens or how it's done.' Of course I couldn't tell what might

happen, but there was only one way it could be done, and that was for

me to get into the boat that was tied to the post down by the water,

and take it to her, for it was too far for me to walk around by the

head of the bay. Now, the trouble was, I didn't know no more about a

boat and the managin' of it than any one of you sailormen knows about

clear-starchin'. But there wasn't no use of thinkin' what I knew and

what I didn't know, for I had to take it to her, and there was no way

of doin' it except in that boat. So I filled a gallon can, for I

thought I might as well take enough while I was about it, and I went

down to the water and I unhitched that boat and I put the oil-can into

her, and then I got in, and off I started, and when I was about a

quarter of a mile from the shore--"

"Madam," interrupted Captain Bird, "did you row or--or was there a sail

to the boat?"

The widow looked at the questioner for a moment. "No," said she, "I

didn't row. I forgot to bring the oars from the house; but it didn't

matter, for I didn't know how to use them, and if there had been a sail

I couldn't have put it up, for I didn't know how to use it, either. I

used the rudder to make the boat go. The rudder was the only thing I

knew anything about. I'd held a rudder when I was a little girl, and I

knew how to work it. So I just took hold of the handle of the rudder

and turned it round and round, and that made the boat go ahead, you

know, and--"

"Madam!" exclaimed Captain Bird, and the other elderly mariners took

their pipes from their mouths.

"Yes, that is the way I did it," continued the widow, briskly. "Big

steamships are made to go by a propeller turning round and round at

their back ends, and I made the rudder work in the same way, and I got

along very well, too, until suddenly, when I was about a quarter of a

mile from the shore, a most terrible and awful storm arose. There must

have been a typhoon or a cyclone out at sea, for the waves came up the

bay bigger than houses, and when they got to the head of the bay they

turned around and tried to get out to sea again. So in this way they

continually met, and made the most awful and roarin' pilin' up of waves

that ever was known.

"My little boat was pitched about as if it had been a feather in a

breeze, and when the front part of it was cleavin' itself down into the

water the hind part was stickin' up until the rudder whizzed around

like a patent churn with no milk in it. The thunder began to roar and

the lightnin' flashed, and three sea-gulls, so nearly frightened to

death that they began to turn up the whites of their eyes, flew down

and sat on one of the seats of the boat, forgettin' in that awful

moment that man was their nat'ral enemy. I had a couple of biscuits in

my pocket, because I had thought I might want a bite in crossing, and I

crumpled up one of these and fed the poor creatures. Then I began to

wonder what I was goin' to do, for things were gettin' awfuller and

awfuller every instant, and the little boat was a-heavin' and

a-pitchin' and a-rollin' and h'istin' itself up, first on one end and

then on the other, to such an extent that if I hadn't kept tight hold

of the rudder-handle I'd slipped off the seat I was sittin' on.

"All of a sudden I remembered that oil in the can; but just as I was

puttin' my fingers on the cork my conscience smote me. 'Am I goin' to

use this oil,' I said to myself, 'and let my sister-in-law's husband be

wrecked for want of it?' And then I thought that he wouldn't want it

all that night, and perhaps they would buy oil the next day, and so I

poured out about a tumblerful of it on the water, and I can just tell

you sailormen that you never saw anything act as prompt as that did.

In three seconds, or perhaps five, the water all around me, for the

distance of a small front yard, was just as flat as a table and as

smooth as glass, and so invitin' in appearance that the three gulls

jumped out of the boat and began to swim about on it, primin' their

feathers and lookin' at themselves in the transparent depths, though I

must say that one of them made an awful face as he dipped his bill into

the water and tasted kerosene.

"Now I had time to sit quiet in the midst of the placid space I had

made for myself, and rest from workin' of the rudder. Truly it was a

wonderful and marvelous thing to look at. The waves was roarin' and

leapin' up all around me higher than the roof of this house, and

sometimes their tops would reach over so that they nearly met and shut

out all view of the stormy sky, which seemed as if it was bein' torn to

pieces by blazin' lightnin', while the thunder pealed so tremendous

that it almost drowned the roar of the waves. Not only above and all

around me was everything terrific and fearful, but even under me it was

the same, for there was a big crack in the bottom of the boat as wide

as my hand, and through this I could see down into the water beneath,

and there was--"

"Madam!" ejaculated Captain Bird, the hand which, had been holding his

pipe a few inches from his mouth now dropping to his knee; and at this

motion the hands which held the pipes of the three other mariners

dropped to their knees.

"Of course it sounds strange," continued the widow, "but I know that

people can see down into clear water, and the water under me was clear,

and the crack was wide enough for me to see through, and down under me

was sharks and swordfishes and other horrible water creatures, which I

had never seen before, all driven into the bay, I haven't a doubt, by

the violence of the storm out at sea. The thought of my bein' upset

and fallin' in among those monsters made my very blood run cold, and

involuntary-like I began to turn the handle of the rudder, and in a

moment I shot into a wall of ragin' sea-water that was towerin' around

me. For a second I was fairly blinded and stunned, but I had the cork

out of that oil-can in no time, and very soon--you'd scarcely believe

it if I told you how soon--I had another placid mill-pond surroundin'

of me. I sat there a-pantin' and fannin' with my straw hat, for you'd

better believe I was flustered, and then I began to think how long it

would take me to make a line of mill-ponds clean across the head of the

bay, and how much oil it would need, and whether I had enough. So I

sat and calculated that if a tumblerful of oil would make a smooth

place about seven yards across, which I should say was the width of the

one I was in,--which I calculated by a measure of my eye as to how many

breadths of carpet it would take to cover it,--and if the bay was two

miles across betwixt our house and my sister-in-law's, and, although I

couldn't get the thing down to exact figures, I saw pretty soon that I

wouldn't have oil enough to make a level cuttin' through all those

mountainous billows, and besides, even if I had enough to take me

across, what would be the good of goin' if there wasn't any oil left to

fill my sister-in-law's lamp?

"While I was thinkin' and calculatin' a perfectly dreadful thing

happened, which made me think if I didn't get out of this pretty soon

I'd find myself in a mighty risky predicament. The oil-can, which I

had forgotten to put the cork in, toppled over, and before I could grab

it every drop of the oil ran into the hind part of the boat, where it

was soaked up by a lot of dry dust that was there. No wonder my heart

sank when I saw this. Glancin' wildly around me, as people will do

when they are scared, I saw the smooth place I was in gettin' smaller

and smaller, for the kerosene was evaporating as it will do even off

woolen clothes if you give it time enough. The first pond I had come

out of seemed to be covered up, and the great, towerin', throbbin'

precipice of sea-water was a-closin' around me.

"Castin' down my eyes in despair, I happened to look through the crack

in the bottom of the boat, and oh, what a blessed relief it was! for

down there everything was smooth and still, and I could see the sand on

the bottom, as level and hard, no doubt, as it was on the beach.

Suddenly the thought struck me that that bottom would give me the only

chance I had of gettin' out of the frightful fix I was in. If I could

fill that oil-can with air, and then puttin' it under my arm and takin'

a long breath if I could drop down on that smooth bottom, I might run

along toward shore, as far as I could, and then, when I felt my breath

was givin' out, I could take a pull at the oil-can and take another

run, and then take another pull and another run, and perhaps the can

would hold air enough for me until I got near enough to shore to wade

to dry land. To be sure, the sharks and other monsters were down

there, but then they must have been awfully frightened, and perhaps

they might not remember that man was their nat'ral enemy. Anyway, I

thought it would be better to try the smooth water passage down there

than stay and be swallowed up by the ragin' waves on top.

"So I blew the can full of air and corked it, and then I tore up some

of the boards from the bottom of the boat so as to make a hole big

enough for me to get through,--and you sailormen needn't wriggle so

when I say that, for you all know a divin'-bell hasn't any bottom at

all and the water never comes in,--and so when I got the hole big

enough I took the oil-can under my arm, and was just about to slip down

through it when I saw an awful turtle a-walkin' through the sand at the

bottom. Now, I might trust sharks and swordfishes and sea-serpents to

be frightened and forget about their nat'ral enemies, but I never could

trust a gray turtle as big as a cart, with a black neck a yard long,

with yellow bags to its jaws, to forget anything or to remember

anything. I'd as lieve get into a bathtub with a live crab as to go

down there. It wasn't of no use even so much as thinkin' of it, so I

gave up that plan and didn't once look through that hole again."

"And what did you do, madam?" asked Captain Bird, who was regarding her

with a face of stone.

"I used electricity," she said "Now don't start as if you had a shock

of it. That's what I used. When I was younger than I was then, and

sometimes visited friends in the city, we often amused ourselves by

rubbing our feet on the carpet until we got ourselves so full of

electricity that we could put up our fingers and light the gas. So I

said to myself that if I could get full of electricity for the purpose

of lightin' the gas I could get full of it for other purposes, and so,

without losin' a moment, I set to work. I stood up on one of the

seats, which was dry, and rubbed the bottoms of my shoes backward and

forward on it with such violence and swiftness that they pretty soon

got warm and I began fillin' with electricity, and when I was fully

charged with it from my toes to the top of my head, I just sprang into

the water and swam ashore. Of course I couldn't sink, bein' full of

electricity."

Captain Bird heaved a long sigh and rose to his feet, whereupon the

other mariners rose to their feet. "Madam," said Captain Bird, "what's

to pay for the supper and--the rest of the entertainment?"

"The supper is twenty-five cents apiece," said the Widow Ducket, "and

everything else is free, gratis."

Whereupon each mariner put his hand into his trousers pocket, pulled

out a silver quarter, and handed it to the widow. Then, with four

solemn "Good evenin's," they went out to the front gate.

"Cast off, Captain Jenkinson," said Captain Bird, "and you, Captain

Burress, clew him up for'ard. You can stay in the bow, Captain

Sanderson, and take the sheet-lines. I'll go aft."

All being ready, each of the elderly mariners clambered over a wheel,

and having seated themselves, they prepared to lay their course for

Cuppertown.

But just as they were about to start, Captain Jenkinson asked that they

lay to a bit, and clambering down over his wheel, he reëntered the

front gate and went up to the door of the house, where the widow and

Dorcas were still standing.

"Madam," said he, "I just came back to ask what became of your

brother-in-law through his wife's not bein' able to put no light in the

window?"

"The storm drove him ashore on our side of the bay," said she, "and the

next mornin' he came up to our house, and I told him all that had

happened to me. And when he took our boat and went home and told that

story to his wife, she just packed up and went out West, and got

divorced from him. And it served him right, too."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Captain Jenkinson, and going out of the gate,

he clambered up over the wheel, and the wagon cleared for Cuppertown.

When the elderly mariners were gone, the Widow Ducket, still standing

in the door, turned to Dorcas.

"Think of it!" she said. "To tell all that to me, in my own house!

And after I had opened my one jar of brandied peaches, that I'd been

keepin' for special company!"

"In your own house!" ejaculated Dorcas. "And not one of them brandied

peaches left!"

The widow jingled the four quarters in her hand before she slipped them

into her pocket.

"Anyway, Dorcas," she remarked, "I think we can now say we are square

with all the world, and so let's go in and wash the dishes."

"Yes," said Dorcas, "we're square."

THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST

By O. HENRY

Copyright 1907 by McClure, Phillips & Co.

One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenue

boarding-house, Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a young

lady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore a

plain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemed

languid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shot one

perspicuous, judicial glance at Mr. Donovan, politely murmured his

name, and returned to her mutton. Mr. Donovan bowed with the grace and

beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social, business and

political advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown one from the tablets

of his consideration.

Two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying his cigar.

There was a soft rustle behind and above him, and Andy turned his

head--and had his head turned.

Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-black dress

of _crêpe de--crêpe de_--oh, this thin black goods. Her hat was black,

and from it drooped and fluttered an ebon veil, filmy as a spider's

web. She stood on the top step and drew on black silk gloves. Not a

speck of white or a spot of color about her dress anywhere. Her rich

golden hair was drawn, with scarcely a ripple, into a shining, smooth

knot low on her neck. Her face was plain rather than pretty, but it

was now illuminated and made almost beautiful by her large gray eyes

that gazed above the houses across the street into the sky with an

expression of the most appealing sadness and melancholy.

Gather the idea, girls--all black, you know, with the preference for

_crêpe de_--oh, _crêpe de Chine_--that's it. All black, and that sad,

faraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (you have to be

a blonde, of course), and try to look as if, although your young life

had been blighted just as it was about to give a hop-skip-and-a-jump

over the threshold of life, a walk in the park might do you good, and

be sure to happen out the door at the right moment, and--oh, it'll

fetch 'em every time. But it's fierce, now, how cynical I am, ain't

it?--to talk about mourning costumes this way.

Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his

consideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of his

cigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quickly

shifted his center of gravity to his low-cut patent leathers.

"It's a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway," he said; and if the Weather

Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones it would

have hoisted the square white signal and nailed it to the mast.

"To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan," said Miss

Conway, with a sigh.

Mr. Donovan in his heart cursed fair weather. Heartless weather! It

should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss

Conway.

"I hope none of your relatives--I hope you haven't sustained a loss?"

ventured Mr. Donovan.

"Death has claimed," said Miss Conway, hesitating--"not a relative, but

one who--but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan."

"Intrude?" protested Mr. Donovan. "Why, say, Miss Conway, I'd be

delighted, that is, I'd be sorry--I mean I'm sure nobody could

sympathize with you truer than I would."

Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her

expression in repose.

"'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the

laugh,'" she quoted.

"I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no friends or acquaintances

in this city. But you have been kind to me. I appreciate it highly."

He had passed her the pepper twice at the table.

"It's tough to be alone in New York--that's a cinch," said Mr. Donovan.

"But, say--whenever this little old town does loosen up and get

friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park,

Miss Conway--don't you think it might chase away some of your

mullygrubs? And if you'd allow me--"

"Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I'd be pleased to accept of your escort if you

think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be

anyways agreeable to you."

Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where

the elect once took the air, they strolled and found a quiet bench.

There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old

age: youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares;

old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.

"He was my fiancé," confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. "We

were going to be married next spring. I don't want you to think that I

am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had an

estate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. I

never saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course, and

once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. I thought sure

papa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a livery business--in

P'kipsee, you know.

"Finally, papa came around all right, and said we might be married next

spring. Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, and then

went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us. Papa's very

proud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousand dollars for

my trousseau he called him down something awful. He wouldn't even let

me take a ring or any presents from him. And when Fernando sailed I

came to the city and got a position as cashier in a candy store.

"Three days ago I got a letter from Italy, forwarded from P'kipsee,

saying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident.

"That is why I am in mourning. My heart, Mr. Donovan, will remain

forever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but I

can not take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep you

from gaiety and your friends who can smile and entertain you. Perhaps

you would prefer to walk back to the house?"

Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick

and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow's

grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask any widow.

Something must be done to restore that missing organ to weeping girls

in _crêpe de Chine_. Dead men certainly got the worse of it from all

sides.

"I'm awful sorry," said Mr. Donovan gently. "No, we won't walk back to

the house just yet. And don't say you haven't no friends in this city,

Miss Conway. I'm awful sorry, and I want you to believe I'm your

friend, and that I'm awful sorry."

"I've got his picture here in my locket," said Miss Conway, after

wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. "I never showed it to anybody,

but I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to be a true

friend."

Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in the

locket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of Count Mazzini was

one to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent, bright, almost

a handsome face--the face of a strong, cheerful man who might well be a

leader among his fellows.

"I have a larger one, framed, in my room," said Miss Conway. "When we

return I will show you that. They are all I have to remind me of

Fernando. But he ever will be present in my heart, that's a sure

thing."

A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan--that of supplanting the

unfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admiration for

her determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertaking did not

seem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerful friend

was the role he essayed, and he played it so successfully that the next

half-hour found them conversing pensively across two plates of

ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of the sadness in Miss

Conway's large gray eyes.

Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and

brought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk

scarf. Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes.

"He gave me this the night he left for Italy," said Miss Conway. "I

had one for the locket made from this."

"A fine-looking man," said Mr. Donovan heartily. "How would it suit

you, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney next

Sunday afternoon?"

A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and the

other boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black.

A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in the

downtown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dim

kinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight. But Donovan had worn a

look of abstracted gloom all day. He was so silent to-night that

love's lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love's

heart propounded.

"What's the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?"

"Nothing, Maggie."

"I know better. Can't I tell? You never acted this way before. What

is it?"

"It's nothing much, Maggie."

"Yes it is, and I want to know. I'll bet it's some other girl you are

thinking about. All right. Why don't you go and get her if you want

her? Take your arm away, if you please."

"I'll tell you then," said Andy wisely; "but I guess you won't

understand it exactly. You've heard of Mike Sullivan, haven't you?

'Big Mike' Sullivan, everybody calls him."

"No, I haven't," said Maggie. "And I don't want to, if he makes you

act like this. Who is he?"

"He's the biggest man in New York," said Andy, almost reverently. "He

can do about anything he wants to with Tammany or any other old thing

in the political line. He's a mile high and as broad as East River.

You say anything against Big Mike and you'll have a million men on your

collarbone in about two seconds. Why, he made a visit over to the old

country awhile back, and the kings took to their holes like rabbits.

"Well, Big Mike's a friend of mine. I ain't more than deuce-high in

the district as far as influence goes, but Mike's as good a friend to a

little man, or a poor man, as he is to a big one. I met him to-day on

the Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up and shakes hands.

'Andy,' says he, 'I've been keeping cases on you. You've been putting

in some good licks over on your side of the street, and I'm proud of

you. What'll you take to drink?' He takes a cigar, and I take a

highball. I told him I was going to get married in two weeks. 'Andy,'

says he, 'send me an invitation, so I'll keep in mind of it, and I'll

come to the wedding.' That's what Big Mike says to me; and he always

does what he says.

"You don't understand it, Maggie, but I'd have one of my hands cut off

to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It would be the proudest day

of my life. When he goes to a man's wedding there's a guy being

married that's made for life. Now, that's why I've maybe been looking

sore to-night."

"Why don't you invite him, then, if he's so much to the mustard?" said

Maggie lightly.

"There's a reason why I can't," said Andy sadly. "There's a reason why

he mustn't be there. Don't ask me what it is, for I can't tell you."

"Oh, I don't care," said Maggie. "It's something about politics, of

course. But it's no reason why you can't smile at me."

"Maggie," said Andy presently, "do you think as much of me as you did

of your--as you did of the Count Mazzini?"

He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenly

she leaned against his shoulder and began to cry--to cry and shake with

sobs, holding his arm tightly and wetting the _crêpe de Chine_ with

tears.

"There, there, there!" soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble.

"And what is it now?"

"Andy," sobbed Maggie, "I've lied to you and you'll never marry me, or

love me any more. But I feel that I've got to tell. Andy, there never

was so much as the little finger of a count. I never had a beau in my

life. But all the other girls had, and they talked about 'em, and that

seemed to make the fellows like 'em more. And, Andy, I look swell in

black--you know I do. So I went out to a photograph store and bought

that picture, and had a little one made for my locket, and made up all

that story about the Count and about his being killed, so I could wear

black. And nobody can love a liar and you'll shake me, Andy, and I'll

die for shame. Oh, there never was anybody I liked but you--and that's

all."

But instead of being pushed away she found Andy's arm folding her

closely. She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling.

"Could you--could you forgive me, Andy?"

"Sure," said Andy. "It's all right about that. Back to the cemetery

for the Count. You've straightened everything out, Maggie. I was in

hopes you would before the wedding-day. Bully girl!"

"Andy," said Maggie with a somewhat shy smile, after she had been

thoroughly assured of forgiveness, "did you believe all that story

about the Count?"

"Well, not to any large extent," said Andy, reaching for his

cigar-case; "because it's Big Mike Sullivan's picture you've got in

that locket of yours."

MISS TOOKER'S WEDDING GIFT

By JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

Copyright 1909 by J. B. Lippincott Company.

I

Van Buren tossed his gloves impatiently on the table, removed his

overcoat, and sat down before the fire. He was apparently deeply

concerned about something, for when Niki, his Japanese valet, entered

the room and placed the whisky and soda on the little table at his

side, Van Buren paid no more attention to him than he would to a

vagrant sunmote that crossed his path. Long and steadily he gazed into

the broad fireplace, watching the dancing flames at play, pausing only

to light his pipe, upon which he pulled fiercely. Finally he spoke,

leaning forward and to all intents and purposes addressing the andirons.

"Confound the money!" he said impatiently. "I wish to thunder the

Governor had left it to some orphan asylum or to found a Chair in

Choctaw at some New England university, instead of to me--then I might

have made something of myself. Here am I twenty-seven years old and

all the fame I ever got came from leading cotillions at Newport, and my

sole contribution to the common weal has consisted of the fines I've

paid into the public treasury for exceeding the speed limit. Life!

I've seen a lot of it--haven't I, in this empty social shell I've been

born into!"

He paused for a moment and poured a stiff four fingers of whisky into a

glass at his side.

"Bah!" he shuddered as the odor of it greeted his nostrils. "You're a

poor kind of fuel for such an engine as I might have been if I'd been

started on the right track. By Jove! Ethel is right. What good am I?

What have I ever done to make myself worth while or to show that I have

any character in me that is a jot better than that of any of the rest

of our poor stenciled, gold-plated society."

He looked at the glass and made a wry face.

"I'll cut _you_ out anyhow," he said, pushing the liquor away from him.

"That's something. Niki!" he called.

The inscrutable Niki obeyed the summons on the word.

"Take that stuff away and hereafter don't bring it unless I call for

it," said Van Buren. "Any letters?"

"One," said Niki. "A messenger brought him at eight o'clock. I get

it."

Niki went to the escritoire and picked up the little square of blue

envelope lying thereon and handed it to Van Buren.

"Thank you, Niki. You may go now--I can get along without you

until--well, say noon to-morrow. Good night."

"Good night," said Niki, and withdrew noiselessly.

"Humph!" ejaculated Van Buren. "Even he is worth more to the world

than I am. He does something, even if it is only for me, which is more

than I can do. I don't seem to be able to do anything even for myself."

With a sigh of discontent, Van Buren poked the fire for moment and then

settled himself in the armchair, holding the letter before his eyes as

he did so.

"From Ethel," he said. "Probably my death-warrant. Oh, well--why not?

If she won't have me, she won't, that's all. Only one more drop of

bitters in my cocktail. I may as well read it anyhow. It's like a

cold plunge, and I hate to take it, but--here goes."

He tore open the envelope and, extracting the note, read it:

Dear Harry--I have been thinking things over since you left me this

afternoon and I have changed my mind. [Van Buren's eyes lighted with

hope.] I _do_ care for you, but I can not see much happiness ahead for

either of us unless one or the other of us changes radically. It may

be my fault, but I can not forget that if I married a man I should want

always to be proud of him, and ambitious for his success in the world.

If I were not ambitious, I could be proud of you just as you are, for I

know you for the fine fellow that you are. While you do none of the

things that I should love to have my future husband do, you at least do

none of those other things that men make a practise of, and that mean

so much misery for their womenkind, whether they show it or not. But,

dear Harry, why can you not make yourself more of a man than you are?

Why be content with just the splendid foundation, and let it lie,

gradually disintegrating because you have failed to rear upon it some

kind of a superstructure that would be in keeping with what rests

beneath? You can--I know you can--and that is why I have decided to

withdraw what appeared to be my final answer of this afternoon, and, if

you want it, to give you another chance.

"_If_ I want it!" ejaculated Van Buren. "Lord knows how I want it!"

Come to me at the end of a year and show me the record of something

accomplished, that lifts you out this awful social rut we have all

managed to get into, and my "no" of this afternoon may be turned into a

"yes," and the misery of my heart be turned to joy. Of course you will

say that it is all very easy for me to write this, and to tell you to

go out and do something, but that the hard thing would be to tell you

what to go out and do--and you will be perfectly right. General advice

is the easiest thing in the world, but the specific, constructive

suggestion is very different. So I will give you the specific

suggestion, and it is this: Why do you not write a novel? You used in

your days at Harvard to write clever skits for the "Lampoon," and one

or two of your little stories in the "Advocate" showed that you at

least know how to put words and sentences together in a pleasing way,

even if the themes of your stories were slight and the plots not very

intricate. Do this, Harry. Surely with your experience in life you

can think of something to write about. Apply yourself to this work

during the coming year, and when your book is published and has proven

a success, come to me again, and maybe I shall have some good news to

tell you.

It may be, dear Harry, that you will not think it worth while. For

myself, I hardly think the prize is worth the winning, but you seem to

feel differently about that, if I may judge from what you said this

afternoon, and you did seem to mean it all, every word of it, you poor

boy.

We shall meet, of course, as frequently as ever, but until the year is

up, and that a year of achievement, you must not speak of the matter

again, and must regard me as I shall hope in any event always to remain,

Your devoted friend,

ETHEL TOOKER.

Van Buren laughed nervously, as he finished the letter, and again lit

his pipe, which had gone out while he read.

"Write a novel, eh?" he muttered with a grin. "A nice, easy task that.

A hundred and fifty thousand words, all meaning something. Ah me! Why

the dickens wasn't I born in an age when knighthood was in flower and

my Lady Fayre set Sir Hubert some easy task like putting on a tin suit

and going out on the highway and swatting another potted Sir Bedivere

on the head with an antique ax? The Quest of the Golden Fleece was an

easy stunt alongside of writing a novel these times, and I fear I'm

more of a Jason than a Henry James!"

He turned to his desk, and the next five minutes were devoted to the

writing of an acknowledgment of Miss Tooker's letter.

I thank you for your suggestion [he wrote], and I truly think it will

bear thinking over. Any suggestion that makes for the realization of

my fondest hopes will bear thinking over, and I am going to do what I

can. I wish you had set me an easier task, however, like getting

myself appointed Ambassador to England, or Excise Commissioner, for

honestly I do not feel the call of the pen. Nevertheless, my dearest

Ethel, just to prove to you how honestly devoted to you I am, I shall

to-morrow lay in a stock of pads, a brand new pen, and a new Roosevelt

Dictionary to guide me into the short cut to success via the Reformed

Spelling Route. I have already got my leading characters--my heroine

and my hero. She is the sweetest, fairest, dearest girl in the world,

and is to be named Ethel. The hero is to be a miserable, down-and-out

young cub of a millionaire who, having been brought up in a hot-house

atmosphere, never had a chance when exposed to the chilling blasts of

the world. She, of course, will redeem poor Harry--that is to be my

hero's name--from the pitfalls of bridge, Newport, and the demon Rum.

And, of course, she will marry him in the end.

Ever your devoted

HARRY.

P. S. As expressive of my real feelings, my story will be written in

blue ink.

II

Late one evening, six months later, Van Buren rose wearily from his

desk, but with a light of triumph in his eye.

"There!" he said. "That is done. 'The City of Credit' is at last _un

fait accompli_. One hundred and thirty-seven thousand five hundred and

sixty-seven words, and all about Newport, with a bit of the life of its

thriving suburbs, New York and Boston, thrown in to relieve the

sordidness of it all."

He gazed affectionately at the pile of manuscript before him.

"It hasn't been half bad, after all," he said. "The first ten thousand

words came like water from a fire hose, the second ten thousand were

pure dentistry, tooth-pulling extraordinary, and the rest of it--well,

it is queer how when you get interested in shoveling coal how easy it

all seems. And now for the hardest end of the job. To find a

publisher who is weak-minded enough to print it."

This indeed proved much the hardest part of Van Buren's work, for the

reluctance of the large publishing houses of New York and Boston to

place their imprint upon the title-page of "The City of Credit" became

painfully evident to the youthful author. The manuscript came back to

Van Buren with a frequency that was more than ominous.

"I think," he remarked ruefully to himself upon the occasion of its

sixth rejection, "that I have discovered the principle of perpetual

motion. If there were only enough publishers in the world to last

through all eternity, I could keep this manuscript going forever."

Days passed and with no glimmer of hope, until one morning at a time

when "The City of Credit" was about due for its thirteenth reappearance

on his desk Van Buren found in its stead a letter from Hutchins &

Waterbury, of Boston, apprising him of the fact that his novel had been

read and was so well liked that "our Mr. Waterbury will be pleased to

have Mr. Van Buren call to discuss a possible arrangement under which

the firm would be willing to undertake its publication."

"Good Lord!" cried Van Buren as he read the letter over for the third

time, even then barely crediting the possibilities of success that now

loomed before him. "And Boston people, too! Will I call! Niki, pack

my suit-case at once, and engage a seat for me on the Knickerbocker

Limited."

The following morning an interview between "our Mr. Waterbury" and Van

Buren took place in the firm's private office on Tremont Street,

Boston. It appeared that while the readers of the firm of Hutchins &

Waterbury had unanimously condemned the book, Mr. Waterbury, himself,

having read it, rather thought it might have a living chance.

"Some portions of your narrative are brilliant, and some of them are

otherwise, Mr. Van Buren," said Mr. Waterbury frankly. "But

considering the authorship of the book and that it is a description of

Newport life by one who is a part of its innermost circle, I am

inclined to think it will prove interesting to the public. Your

picture of the social wheels within wheels is so intimate, and I judge

so accurate, that it would attract attention."

"I am glad you think so," said Van Buren, with a dry throat--the idea

that his book might be published after all was really overpowering.

"On the other hand, the judgment of our readers is so unanimously

adverse that Mr. Hutchins and I feel the need of proceeding cautiously.

Now, what would you say to our publishing the book on--ah--on your

account, as it were?"

"You want me to--" began Van Buren.

"To pay for the plates and advertising," said Mr. Waterbury. "We will

stand for the paper and the binding, and will act as your agents in the

distribution of the book, accounting to you for every copy printed and

sold."

"Is--is that quite _en regle_?" asked Van Buren dubiously.

"It is quite customary," replied Mr. Waterbury. "In fact, ninety per

cent of our business is conducted upon that basis."

"I see," said Van Buren.

"You hand us your check for twenty-five hundred dollars to cover the

expenses I have specified," continued the astute publisher, "and we

will publish your book, allowing you a royalty of fifty per cent on

every copy sold."

"I suppose the first edition would be--" said Van Buren hesitatingly.

"Five hundred copies," said Waterbury. "The smaller your first

edition, the sooner you are likely to go into a second, and, as you

know, it is a great advantage for a book to go into a second edition

quickly, if only for advertising purposes. Think it over, and let me

know this afternoon if you can. I have to leave for Chicago to-night,

and if we are to have 'The City of Credit' ready for the autumn trade,

we should begin work on it right away."

"I understand," said Van Buren. "Well--I--I guess it's all right.

It's only the principle of the thing--but if, as you say, it is quite

customary--why, yes. I'll give you my check now. Do you want it

certified?"

"That will not be at all necessary, Mr. Van Buren," said Waterbury

magnanimously. "We are quite aware that your own signature to a check

is a sufficient certification."

The afternoon train for Newport carried Van Buren back to the social

capital with a contract in his pocket, signed by Messrs. Hutchins &

Waterbury, assuring the early publication of "The City of Credit," but

in view of certain of its financial stipulations, jubilant as he was

over the success of his first real step toward fame, Van Buren did not

show it to Miss Tooker, as he might have done had it contained no

reference to a check on the Tenth National Bank of New York calling for

the payment of two thousand five hundred dollars to the Boston firm of

publishers.

III

In September "The City of Credit" was published, and widely advertised

by Messrs. Hutchins & Waterbury, and Van Buren took particular pains to

secure the first copy from the press and to send it by messenger with a

suitable inscription and a note to Miss Tooker.

"I send you my book," he wrote, "not because I think it is worth

reading, but for the double purpose of showing you that I have tried my

best to fulfil your wishes, and to assure the work of at least the

circulation of one copy. It has all of my heart in it."

For one reason or another, doubtless because there were quite five

hundred other novels of a similar character put forth about the same

time, by the end of October the world had not yet been consumed by any

conflagration of Van Buren's lighting.

"The book hangs fire," said Mr. Waterbury when Van Buren called upon

him at his Boston office to inquire how things were going. "We printed

five hundred copies, and this morning's report shows two hundred and

thirty still on hand. A hundred and sixty were sent for review."

"I wish they hadn't been," said Van Buren, with a rueful smile. "They

have provided just one hundred and sixty separate pieces of fuel for

the critics to roast me with. Have there been any favorable reviews of

the book?"

"None that I have seen--but don't you worry about that," replied Mr.

Waterbury comfortingly. "It's the counting-room, not the critics, that

tell the story. Something may happen yet to pull us out."

"What, for instance?" asked Van Buren

"Oh, I don't know," said Waterbury. "You might do something

sensational and get it in the papers. That would help. It's up to

you, Mr. Van Buren."

"I guess I'm all in," said Van Buren to himself as he walked down

Tremont Street. "Up to me to do something--by Jove!" he interrupted

himself abruptly. He had suddenly espied a copy of "The City of

Credit" in a shop window. "Up to me, is it? Well, I think I shall

rise to the occasion and not by doing anything sensational either."

He entered the shop.

"I want six copies of 'The City of Credit,'" he said quietly to the

salesman. "It's a first-class story. Much of a demand for it?"

"No," said the salesman. "We have only the window copy, and we've had

that over a month. I can get them for you, however."

"All right," said Van Buren. "Just send them to Charles H. Harney, The

Helicon Club, New York. I'll pay for them now."

Van Buren paid his bill, and, returning to the street, hailed a hansom.

"Take me to some good book-shop," he said to the cabby.

Instanter he was whirled around into Winter Street, where stands one of

Boston's most famous literary distributing centers.

"Have you 'The City of Credit'?" he asked the salesman.

"I think we have a copy in stock," replied the latter. "If we haven't,

we can get it for you."

"Do so, please," said Van Buren. "I want a dozen copies--send them by

express to Charles H. Harney, The Helicon Club, New York. How much?"

"It's a dollar and a half book, I think," said the clerk. "The

discount will make it $1.20--a dozen, did you say? Twenty-five cents

expressage--that will make it $14.65."

Van Buren paid up without a whimper. Once in the hansom again, he

called up through the little hole in the top.

"Isn't there any other book-shop in town where I can get what I want?"

he demanded.

"There's a dozen of 'em," replied the cabby.

"Then go to them all," said Van Buren.

That night when Van Buren started for New York he had purchased a

hundred and fifty copies of "The City of Credit," and had ordered them

all to be addressed to the clerk at the Helicon Club, with whom, upon

his arrival in town, he arranged for their immediate reshipment to the

Harrison Safety Deposit Storage Company on Forty-second Street.

"I'm going to have my happiness, if I have to buy it," Van Buren

muttered doggedly, as he crept into bed shortly after midnight. And

then, tossing sleeplessly in his bed and at last rejoicing in the

possession of his late father's millions to back him in his enterprise,

he laid the foundations of a plan comparable only to that of the Wheat

King who corners the market, or the man of Cotton who loads himself up

with more bales of that useful commodity than all the fertile acres of

the South could raise in seven seasons. Orders were despatched by wire

and by mail to all the booksellers in the land whose names and

addresses Van Buren could get hold of. Department stores were put

under contribution and their stock commandeered, and one of the biggest

booms in the whole history of literature set in.

"The City of Credit" went into its second, fifth, twentieth, fiftieth

large edition. Hutchins & Waterbury wrote Van Buren stating that a

sudden turn in the market had made his book one of the six best sellers

not only of this century but of all centuries. Their presses were

seething to the point of white heat with the copies of "The City of

Credit" needed to supply the demand; their binders were working day and

night with a double force, and their shipping department was pretty

nearly swamped with the strain put upon it. "Your royalty check on

January 1st will be the fattest in the land," wrote Waterbury in a

moment of enthusiasm. "We are thinking of sending our staff of readers

to the lunatic asylum and getting an entirely new set. An order for

four thousand has come in from Chicago this morning. St. Louis wants

fifteen hundred, and pretty nearly every other able-bodied town in the

country is asking for from one to one hundred and fifty." By Christmas

time, if the publishers' announcements were to be believed, "The City

of Credit" had attained to the enormous sale of three hundred and fifty

thousand, and Van Buren was in receipt of a letter from a literary

periodical asking for his photograph for publication in its February

issue. This brought him a realization of the fact that he might now

fairly claim to be considered a literary success. At any rate, he felt

that he had now a right to approach Miss Tooker with a fair prospect of

receiving from her a favorable answer to the question which she had a

year before left an open one.

And events showed that his feeling was justified, for two days later he

enjoyed the blissful sensation of finding himself the accepted lover of

the woman he had tried so hard to please.

"Is it to be--yes?" he whispered, as they sat together in the

conservatory of her father's city house.

"It has--always been--yes," she replied softly, and then what happened

is not for your eyes or mine. Suffice it to say that Van Buren moved

immediately from sordid old New York to become a dweller in the higher

altitudes of Elysium.

Incidentally the boom in "The City of Credit" stopped almost as

suddenly as it had begun. There was nobody apparently who felt called

upon to throw in the necessary number of dollars to sustain an already

over-stimulated market, which puzzled Messrs. Hutchins & Waterbury

exceedingly. They had hoped to live for the balance of their days upon

the profits of their World's Best Seller.

IV

As the spring approached and the day set for Miss Tooker's wedding to

Van Buren came nearer, the latter found himself daily becoming more and

more a prey to conscience. There was a decidedly large fly in the

amber of his happiness, for as he viewed the part he had played in the

forced success of "The City of Credit" he began to see it in its true

light. The first of March brought him his royalty check from Hutchins

& Waterbury, and it was, as had been predicted, gratifyingly large, and

reduced materially what he had called his "campaign expenses." In the

same mail, however, was a bill from the Storage Company, in one of

whose spacious chambers there reposed more copies of his novel than he

liked to think of--over 250,000--the actual sales had been 260,000 in

spite of the published announcements of a higher figure. The firm had

thirty or forty thousand on hand, printed in a moment of confident

enthusiasm when the flurry was at its height. Both communications

brought before Van Buren's mind's eye all too vividly the specter of

his duplicity, and he was too much of a man of conscience to be able to

put it lightly aside. He tried to console himself with the idea that

all is fair in love and war, but he could not, and his remorse caused

him many a sleepless night. Finally--it was on the eve of the posting

of the wedding invitations--scruple overcame him, and he resolved that

he could not honestly lead his bride to the altar with such a record of

deceit upon his escutcheon, especially in view of the fact that it was

through this deceit that his happiness had been won.

"It is better to lose her before the ceremony than after it," he told

himself, and, bitter though the confidence might be, he made up his

mind to tell Miss Tooker everything. "Only, I must break it gently,"

he observed.

With this difficult errand in mind, he called upon his fiancée, and,

after the usual greeting, he started in on his confession. He had

hardly begun it, however, when his courage failed him, and with the

oozing of that his words failed him also. He did have the courage,

however, to seek to reveal the exact situation in another way.

"Ethel dear," he said, awkwardly fumbling his gloves, "I want to show

you something. I have a--a little surprise for you."

The girl eyed him narrowly.

"For me?" she said.

"Yes," he answered. "The fact is, it's--it's a sort of wedding present

I have for you, and I think you ought to see it before--well, _now_.

Will you go?"

Miss Tooker was interested at once, and, taking a hansom, they were

driven to the Harrison Storage Warehouse on Forty-second Street Arrived

there, Van Buren led her to the elevator and thence up to the small

room in which lay the corroding and tell-tale packages--an enormous

bulk--that were slowly but surely eating up his happiness.

"Why, Harry!" she cried as she gazed in bewilderment at the huge pile

of unopened bundles. "Are these all for me?"

"Yes," gulped Van Buren, his face flaming.

"But--what do they contain?" she asked.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand copies of my--my book--'The City of

Credit,'" said Van Buren, his eyes cast down.

"You mean that you--" she began.

"Yes, it's exactly that, Ethel. I--I bought 'em all to--well, to boom

the sales and to--make a name for myself in the world," he said

sheepishly, "or rather for you--but I suppose now that you know---"

"Then all this tremendous sale was arranged between you and your

publishers to deceive me?" she asked.

"Not at all," protested the unhappy Van Buren. "On the contrary, I did

it all myself. Hutchins & Waterbury don't know any more about it than

you did an hour ago. No one knows--except you and I."

Van Buren paused.

"I could not let you marry me without knowing what I had done," he

said. "It would not be fair to--to our future."

"Tell me all about it," she said quietly, and Van Buren made his

confession complete. He told her of his interview with Waterbury--how

the latter had told him his book had fallen flat; how it was "up to

him" to do something; how a sight of a single copy of "The City of

Credit" in the Tremont Street shop window had tempted him first into a

retail fall which had grown ultimately into a wholesale "crime"--as he

put it. He did not spare himself in the least degree, humiliating as

the narration of his story was to him.

"I suppose it is all up with me now," he said ruefully, when he had

finished.

"I don't know," said Ethel quietly. "I don't know, Harry. Perhaps.

Take me home, please. I want to show you something."

The drive back to the Tooker mansion was taken in silence. Van Buren

despised himself too strongly to be able to speak, and Miss Tooker had

fallen into a deep reverie which the poor fellow at her side feared

meant irrevocable ruin to his hopes.

"Come in," said Miss Tooker gravely, as the cab drew up at the house.

"I want to take you up into our attic storeroom, and then ask you a

plain question, Harry, and then I want you to answer that question

simply and truthfully."

Marveling much, Van Buren permitted himself to be led to the topmost

floor of Miss Tooker's house.

"Look in there," said she, opening the door of the storeroom. "Do you

see those packages?"

"Yes," he said. "They look very much like mine, only they're fewer."

"Do you know what they contain?" she asked.

"Books?" queried Van Buren, entering the room and tapping one of the

bundles.

"Yes--yours--your books--five thousand three hundred and ten copies of

'The City of Credit,' Harry," she said, with a rueful smile.

"You--" he ejaculated hoarsely.

"Yes, I bought them all. Some in Newport, some in New York, some at

Lenox--oh, everywhere! Now, tell me this," she interrupted. "Do you

suppose that I would condemn you for doing on a large scale what I have

been doing on a smaller scale ever since last November?"

A ray of hope dawned in Van Buren's eyes.

"Ethel!" he cried, seising her by the hand. "You bought all those--for

me?"

"I certainly did, Harry," she said quietly. "With my pin money, and my

bridge money and all the other kinds of money that I could wheedle out

of my dear old daddy. But answer me. Have I the right to sit in

judgment on you--"

"Not by a long shot!" cried Van Buren. "It would be an act of the most

consummate hypocrisy."

"That is the way I look at it, dear," she whispered, and then--well,

all I have to say is that I don't believe anything like what happened

at that precise moment ever happened in an attic storeroom before.

And the wedding invitations were mailed that very evening.

THE FABLE OF THE TWO MANDOLIN PLAYERS AND THE WILLING PERFORMER

By GEORGE ADE

Copyright 1899 by Herbert S. Stone & Co.

A very attractive Débutante knew two Young Men, who called on her every

Thursday Evening and brought their Mandolins along. They were

Conventional Young Men, of the Kind that you see wearing Spring

Overcoats in the Clothing Advertisements. One was named Fred, and the

other was Eustace.

The Mothers of the Neighborhood often remarked "What Perfect Manners

Fred and Eustace have!" Merely as an aside it may be added that Fred

and Eustace were more Popular with the Mothers than they were with the

Younger Set, although no one could say a Word against either of them.

Only it was rumored in Keen Society that they didn't Belong. The Fact

that they went Calling in a Crowd, and took their Mandolins along, may

give the Acute Reader some Idea of the Life that Fred and Eustace held

out to the Young Women of their Acquaintance.

The Débutante's name was Myrtle. Her Parents were very Watchful, and

did not encourage her to receive Callers, except such as were known to

be Exemplary Young Men. Fred and Eustace were a few of those who

escaped the Black List. Myrtle always appeared to be glad to see them,

and they regarded her as a Darned Swell Girl.

Fred's Cousin came from St. Paul on a Visit; and one Day, in the

Street, he saw Myrtle, and noticed that Fred tipped his Hat, and gave

her a Stage Smile.

"Oh, Queen of Sheba!" exclaimed the Cousin from St. Paul, whose name

was Gus, as he stood stock still and watched Myrtle's Reversible Plaid

disappear around a Corner. "She's a Bird. Do you know her well?"

"I know her Quite Well," replied Fred, coldly. "She is a Charming

Girl."

"She is all of that. You're a great Describer. And now what Night are

you going to take me around to Call on her?"

Fred very naturally Hemmed and Hawed. It must be remembered that

Myrtle was a member of an Excellent Family, and had been schooled in

the Proprieties, and it was not to be supposed that she would crave the

Society of slangy old Gus, who had an abounding Nerve, and furthermore

was as Fresh as the Mountain Air.

He was the Kind of Fellow who would see a Girl twice, and then, upon

meeting her the Third Time, he would go up and straighten her Cravat

for her, and call her by her First Name.

Put him into a Strange Company--en route to a Picnic--and by the time

the Baskets were unpacked he would have a Blonde all to himself, and

she would have traded her Fan for his College Pin.

If a Fair-Looker on the Street happened to glance at him Hard he would

run up and seize her by the Hand, and convince her that they had Met.

And he always Got Away with it, too.

In a Department Store, while awaiting for the Cash Boy to come back

with the Change, he would find out the Girl's Name, her Favorite

Flower, and where a Letter would reach her.

Upon entering a Parlor Car at St. Paul he would select a Chair next to

the Most Promising One in Sight, and ask her if she cared to have the

Shade lowered.

Before the Train cleared the Yards he would have the Porter bringing a

Foot-Stool for the Lady.

At Hastings he would be asking her if she wanted Something to Read.

At Red Wing he would be telling her that she resembled Maxine Elliott,

and showing her his Watch, left to him by his Grandfather, a Prominent

Virginian.

At La Crosse he would be reading the Menu Card to her, and telling her

how different it is when you have Some One to join you in a Bite.

At Milwaukee he would go out and buy a Bouquet for her, and when they

rode into Chicago they would be looking but of the same Window, and he

would be arranging for her Baggage with the Transfer Man. After that

they would be Old Friends.

Now, Fred and Eustace had been at School with Gus, and they had seen

his Work, and they were not disposed to Introduce him into One of the

most Exclusive Homes in the City.

They had known Myrtle for many Years; but they did not dare to Address

her by her First Name, and they were Positive that if Gus attempted any

of his usual Tactics with her she would be Offended; and, naturally

enough, they would be Blamed for bringing him to the House.

But Gus insisted. He said he had seen Myrtle, and she Suited him from

the Ground up, and he proposed to have Friendly Doings with her. At

last they told him they would take him if he promised to Behave. Fred

warned him that Myrtle would frown down any Attempt to be Familiar on

Short Acquaintance, and Eustace said that as long as he had known

Myrtle he had never Presumed to be Free and Forward with her. He had

simply played the Mandolin. That was as Far Along as he had ever got.

Gus told them not to Worry about him. All he asked was a Start. He

said he was a Willing Performer, but as yet he never had been

Disqualified for Crowding.

Fred and Eustace took this to mean that he would not Overplay his

Attentions, so they escorted him to the House.

As soon as he had been Presented, Gus showed her where to sit on the

Sofa, then he placed himself about Six Inches away and began to Buzz,

looking her straight in the Eye. He said that when he first saw her he

Mistook her for Miss Prentice, who was said to be the Most Beautiful

Girl in St. Paul, only, when he came closer, he saw that it couldn't be

Miss Prentice, because Miss Prentice didn't have such Lovely Hair.

Then he asked her the Month of her Birth and told her Fortune, thereby

coming nearer to Holding her Hand within Eight Minutes than Eustace had

come in a Lifetime.

"Play something, Boys," he Ordered, just as if he had paid them Money

to come along and make Music for him.

They unlimbered their Mandolins and began to play a Sousa March. He

asked Myrtle if she had seen the New Moon. She replied that she had

not, so they went Outside.

When Fred and Eustace finished the first Piece, Gus appeared at the

open Window, and asked them to play "The Georgia Camp-Meeting," which

had always been one of his Favorites.

So they played that, and when they had Concluded there came a Voice

from the Outer Darkness, and it was the Voice of Myrtle. She said:

"I'll tell you what to Play; play the Intermezzo."

Fred and Eustace exchanged Glances. They began to Perceive that they

had been backed into a Siding. With a few Potted Palms in front of

them, and two Cards from the Union, they would have been just the same

as a Hired Orchestra.

But they played the Intermezzo and felt Peevish. Then they went to the

Window and looked out. Gus and Myrtle were sitting in the Hammock,

which had quite a Pitch toward the Center. Gus had braced himself by

Holding to the back of the Hammock. He did not have his Arm around

Myrtle, but he had it Extended in a Line parallel with her Back. What

he had done wouldn't Justify a Girl in saying, "Sir!" but it started a

Real Scandal with Fred and Eustace. They saw that the Only Way to Get

Even with her was to go Home without saying "Good Night." So they

slipped out the Side Door, shivering with Indignation.

After that, for several Weeks, Gus kept Myrtle so Busy that she had no

Time to think of considering other Candidates. He sent Books to her

Mother, and allowed the Old Gentleman to take Chips away from him at

Poker.

They were Married in the Autumn, and Father-in-Law took Gus into the

Firm, saying that he had needed a good Pusher for a Long Time.

At the Wedding the two Mandolin Players were permitted to act as Ushers.

MORAL: _To get a fair Trial of Speed use a Pace-Maker_.

THE FABLE OF THE PREACHER WHO FLEW HIS KITE, BUT NOT BECAUSE HE WISHED

TO DO SO

By GEORGE ADE

Copyright 1899 by Herbert S. Stone & Co.

A certain Preacher became wise to the Fact that he was not making a Hit

with his Congregation. The Parishioners did not seem inclined to seek

him out after Services and tell him he was a Pansy. He suspected that

they were Rapping him on the Quiet. The Preacher knew there must be

something wrong with his Talk. He had been trying to Expound in a

clear and straightforward Manner, omitting Foreign Quotations, setting

up for illustration of his Points such Historical Characters as were

familiar to his Hearers, putting the stubby Old English words ahead of

the Latin, and rather flying low along the Intellectual Plane of the

Aggregation that chipped in to pay his Salary. But the Pew-Holders

were not tickled. They could Understand everything he said, and they

began to think he was Common.

So he studied the Situation and decided that if he wanted to Win them

and make everybody believe he was a Nobby and Boss Minister he would

have to hand out a little Guff. He fixed it up Good and Plenty.

On the following Sunday Morning he got up in the Lookout and read a

Text that didn't mean anything, read from either Direction, and then he

sized up his Flock with a Dreamy Eye and said: "We can not more

adequately voice the Poetry and Mysticism of our Text than in those

familiar Lines of the great Icelandic Poet, Ikon Navrojk:

"To hold is not to have--

Under the seared Firmament,

Where Chaos sweeps, and Vast Futurity

Sneers at these puny Aspirations--

There is the full Reprisal."

When the Preacher concluded this Extract from the Well-Known Icelandic

Poet he paused and looked downward, breathing heavily through his Nose,

like Camille in the Third Act.

A Stout Woman in the Front Row put on her Eye-Glasses and leaned

forward so as not to miss Anything. A Venerable Harness Dealer over at

the Right nodded his Head solemnly. He seemed to recognize the

Quotation. Members of the Congregation glanced at one another as if to

say: "This is certainly Hot Stuff!"

The Preacher wiped his Brow and said he had no Doubt that every one

within the Sound of his Voice remembered what Quarolius had said,

following the same Line of Thought. It was Quarolius who disputed the

Contention of the great Persian Theologian Ramtazuk, that the Soul in

its reaching out after the Unknowable was guided by the Spiritual

Genesis of Motive rather than by mere Impulse of Mentality. The

Preacher didn't know what all This meant, and he didn't care, but you

can rest easy that the Pew-Holders were On in a minute. He talked it

off in just the Way that Cyrano talks when he gets Roxane so Dizzy that

she nearly falls off the Piazza.

The Parishioners bit their Lower Lips and hungered for more First-Class

Language. They had paid their Money for Tall Talk and were prepared to

solve any and all styles of Delivery. They held on to the Cushions and

seemed to be having a Nice Time.

The Preacher quoted copiously from the Great Poet Amebius. He recited

18 lines of Greek and then said: "How true this is!" And not a

Parishioner batted an Eye.

It was Amebius whose Immortal Lines he recited in order to prove the

Extreme Error of the Position assumed in the Controversy by the Famous

Italian, Polenta.

He had them Going, and there wasn't a Thing to it. When he would get

tired of faking Philosophy he would quote from a Celebrated Poet of

Ecuador or Tasmania or some other Seaport Town. Compared with this

Verse, all of which was of the same School as the Icelandic

Masterpiece, the most obscure and clouded Passage in Robert Browning

was like a Plate-Glass Front in a State Street Candy Store just after

the Colored Boy gets through using the Chamois.

After that he became Eloquent, and began to get rid of long Boston

Words that hadn't been used before that Season. He grabbed a

rhetorical Roman Candle in each Hand and you couldn't see him for the

Sparks.

After which he sank his Voice to a Whisper and talked about the Birds

and the Flowers. Then, although there was no Cue for him to Weep, he

shed a few real Tears. And there wasn't a dry Glove in the church.

After he sat down he could tell by the Scared Look of the People in

Front that he had made a Ten-Strike.

Did they give him the Joyous Palm that Day? Sure!

The Stout Lady could not control her Feelings when she told how much

the Sermon had helped her. The venerable Harness Dealer said he wished

to indorse the Able and Scholarly Criticism of Polenta.

In fact, every one said the Sermon was Superfine and Dandy. The only

thing that worried the Congregation was the Fear that if it wished to

retain such a Whale it might have to boost his Salary.

In the Meantime the Preacher waited for some one to come and ask about

Polenta, Amebius, Ramtazuk, Quarolius and the great Icelandic Poet,

Navrojk. But no one had the Face to step up and confess his Ignorance

of these Celebrities. The Pew-Holders didn't even admit among

themselves that the Preacher had rung in some New Ones. They stood

Pat, and merely said it was an Elegant Sermon.

Perceiving that they would stand for Anything, the Preacher knew what

to do after that.

MORAL: _Give the People what they Think they want_.

THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL

By MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

Copyright 1903 by Doubleday, Page & Co.

"Henry had words with Edward in the study the night before Edward

died," said Caroline Glynn. She was elderly, tall, and harshly thin,

with a hard colourlessness of face. She spoke not with acrimony, but

with grave severity. Rebecca Ann Glynn, younger, stouter and rosy of

face between her crinkling puffs of gray hair, gasped, by way of

assent. She sat in a wide flounce of black silk in the corner of the

sofa, and rolled terrified eyes from her sister Caroline to her sister

Mrs. Stephen Brigham, who had been Emma Glynn, the one beauty of the

family. She was beautiful still, with a large, splendid, full-blown

beauty; she filled a great rocking-chair with her superb bulk of

femininity, and swayed gently back and forth, her black silks

whispering and her black frills fluttering. Even the shock of death

(for her brother Edward lay dead in the house,) could not disturb her

outward serenity of demeanour. She was grieved over the loss of her

brother: he had been the youngest, and she had been fond of him, but

never had Emma Brigham lost sight of her own importance amidst the

waters of tribulation. She was always awake to the consciousness of

her own stability in the midst of vicissitudes and the splendour of her

permanent bearing.

But even her expression of masterly placidity changed before her sister

Caroline's announcement and her sister Rebecca Ann's gasp of terror and

distress in response.

"I think Henry might have controlled his temper, when poor Edward was

so near his end," said she with an asperity which disturbed slightly

the roseate curves of her beautiful mouth.

"Of course he did not _know_," murmured Rebecca Ann in a faint tone

strangely out of keeping with her appearance.

One involuntarily looked again to be sure that such a feeble pipe came

from that full-swelling chest.

"Of course he did not know it," said Caroline quickly. She turned on

her sister with a strange sharp look of suspicion. "How could he have

known it?" said she. Then she shrank as if from the other's possible

answer. "Of course you and I both know he could not," said she

conclusively, but her pale face was paler than it had been before.

Rebecca gasped again. The married sister, Mrs. Emma Brigham, was now

sitting up straight in her chair; she had ceased rocking, and was

eyeing them both intently with a sudden accentuation of family likeness

in her face. Given one common intensity of emotion and similar lines

showed forth, and the three sisters of one race were evident.

"What do you mean?" said she impartially to them both. Then she, too,

seemed to shrink before a possible answer. She even laughed an evasive

sort of laugh. "I guess you don't mean anything," said she, but her

face wore still the expression of shrinking horror.

"Nobody means anything," said Caroline firmly. She rose and crossed

the room toward the door with grim decisiveness.

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Brigham.

"I have something to see to," replied Caroline, and the others at once

knew by her tone that she had some solemn and sad duty to perform in

the chamber of death.

"Oh," said Mrs. Brigham.

After the door had closed behind Caroline, she turned to Rebecca.

"Did Henry have many words with him?" she asked.

"They were talking very loud," replied Rebecca evasively, yet with an

answering gleam of ready response to the other's curiosity in the quick

lift of her soft blue eyes.

Mrs. Brigham looked at her. She had not resumed rocking. She still

sat up straight with a slight knit of intensity on her fair forehead,

between the pretty rippling curves of her auburn hair.

"Did you--hear anything?" she asked in a low voice with a glance toward

the door.

"I was just across the hall in the south parlour, and that door was

open and this door ajar," replied Rebecca with a slight flush.

"Then you must have----"

"I couldn't help it."

"Everything?"

"Most of it."

"What was it?"

"The old story."

"I suppose Henry was mad, as he always was, because Edward was living

on here for nothing, when he had wasted all the money father left him."

Rebecca nodded with a fearful glance at the door.

When Emma spoke again her voice was still more hushed. "I know how he

felt," said she. "He had always been so prudent himself, and worked

hard at his profession, and there Edward had never done anything but

spend, and it must have looked to him as if Edward was living at his

expense, but he wasn't."

"No, he wasn't."

"It was the way father left the property--that all the children should

have a home here--and he left money enough to buy the food and all if

we had all come home."

"Yes."

"And Edward had a right here according to the terms of father's will,

and Henry ought to have remembered it."

"Yes, he ought."

"Did he say hard things?"

"Pretty hard from what I heard."

"What?"

"I heard him tell Edward that he had no business here at all, and he

thought he had better go away."

"What did Edward say?"

"That he would stay here as long as he lived and afterward, too, if he

was a mind to, and he would like to see Henry get him out; and then----"

"What?"

"Then he laughed."

"What did Henry say?"

"I didn't hear him say anything, but----"

"But what?"

"I saw him when he came out of this room."

"He looked mad?"

"You've seen him when he looked so."

Emma nodded; the expression of horror on her face had deepened.

"Do you remember that time he killed the cat because she had scratched

him?"

"Yes. Don't!"

Then Caroline reëntered the room. She went up to the stove in which a

wood fire was burning--it was a cold, gloomy day of fall--and she

warmed her hands, which were reddened from recent washing in cold water.

Mrs. Brigham looked at her and hesitated. She glanced at the door,

which was still ajar, as it did not easily shut, being still swollen

with the damp weather of the summer. She rose and pushed it together

with a sharp thud, which jarred the house. Rebecca started painfully

with a half exclamation.

Caroline looked at her disapprovingly.

"It is time you controlled your nerves, Rebecca," said she.

"I can't help it," replied Rebecca with almost a wail. "I am nervous.

There's enough to make me so, the Lord knows."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Caroline with her old air of sharp

suspicion, and something between challenge and dread of its being met.

Rebecca shrank.

"Nothing," said she.

"Then I wouldn't keep speaking in such a fashion."

Emma, returning from the closed door, said imperiously that it ought to

be fixed, it shut so hard.

"It will shrink enough after we have had the fire a few days," replied

Caroline. "If anything is done to it it will be too small; there will

be a crack at the sill."

"I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself for talking as he did to

Edward," said Mrs. Brigham abruptly, but in an almost inaudible voice.

"Hush!" said Caroline, with a glance of actual fear at the closed door.

"Nobody can hear with the door shut."

"He must have heard it shut, and----"

"Well, I can say what I want to before he comes down, and I am not

afraid of him."

"I don't know who is afraid of him! What reason is there for anybody

to be afraid of Henry?" demanded Caroline.

Mrs. Brigham trembled before her sister's look. Rebecca gasped again.

"There isn't any reason, of course. Why should there be?"

"I wouldn't speak so, then. Somebody might overhear you and think it

was queer. Miranda Joy is in the south parlour sewing, you know."

"I thought she went upstairs to stitch on the machine."

"She did, but she has come down again."

"Well, she can't hear."

"I say again, I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself. I

shouldn't think he'd ever get over it, having words with poor Edward

the very night before he died. Edward was enough sight better

disposition than Henry, with all his faults. I always thought a great

deal of poor Edward, myself."

Mrs. Brigham passed a large fluff of handkerchief across her eyes;

Rebecca sobbed outright.

"Rebecca," said Caroline admonishingly, keeping her mouth stiff and

swallowing determinately.

"I never heard him speak a cross word, unless he spoke cross to Henry

that last night. I don't know but he did, from what Rebecca

overheard," said Emma.

"Not so much cross as sort of soft, and sweet, and aggravating,"

sniffled Rebecca.

"He never raised his voice," said Caroline; "but he had his way."

"He had a right to in this case."

"Yes, he did."

"He had as much of a right here as Henry," sobbed Rebecca, "and now

he's gone, and he will never be in this home that poor father left him

and the rest of us again."

"What do you really think ailed Edward?" asked Emma in hardly more than

a whisper. She did not look at her sister.

Caroline sat down in a nearby armchair, and clutched the arms

convulsively until her thin knuckles whitened.

"I told you," said she.

Rebecca held her handkerchief over her mouth, and looked at them above

it with terrified, streaming eyes.

"I know you said that he had terrible pains in his stomach, and had

spasms, but what do you think made him have them?"

"Henry called it gastric trouble. You know Edward has always had

dyspepsia."

Mrs. Brigham hesitated a moment. "Was there any talk of

an--examination?" said she.

Then Caroline turned on her fiercely.

"No," said she in a terrible voice. "No."

The three sisters' souls seemed to meet on one common ground of

terrified understanding through their eyes. The old-fashioned latch of

the door was heard to rattle, and a push from without made the door

shake ineffectually. "It's Henry," Rebecca sighed rather than

whispered. Mrs. Brigham settled herself after a noiseless rush.

Across the floor into her rocking-chair again, and was swaying back and

forth with her head comfortably leaning back, when the door at last

yielded and Henry Glynn entered. He cast a covertly sharp,

comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm; at

Rebecca quietly huddled in the corner of the sofa with her handkerchief

to her face and only one small reddened ear as attentive as a dog's

uncovered and revealing her alertness for his presence; at Caroline

sitting with a strained composure in her armchair by the stove. She

met his eyes quite firmly with a look of inscrutable fear, and defiance

of the fear and of him.

Henry Glynn looked more like this sister than the others. Both had the

same hard delicacy of form and feature, both were tall and almost

emaciated, both had a sparse growth of gray blond hair far back from

high intellectual foreheads, both had an almost noble aquilinity of

feature. They confronted each other with the pitiless immovability of

two statues in whose marble lineaments emotions were fixed for all

eternity.

Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face. He looked

suddenly years younger, and an almost boyish recklessness and

irresolution appeared in his face. He flung himself into a chair with

a gesture which was bewildering from its incongruity with his general

appearance. He leaned his head back, flung one leg over the other, and

looked laughingly at Mrs. Brigham.

"I declare, Emma, you grow younger every year," he said.

She flushed a little, and her placid mouth widened at the corners. She

was susceptible to praise.

"Our thoughts to-day ought to belong to the one of us who will _never_

grow older," said Caroline in a hard voice.

Henry looked at her, still smiling. "Of course, we none of us forget

that," said he, in a deep, gentle voice, "but we have to speak to the

living, Caroline, and I have not seen Emma for a long time, and the

living are as dear as the dead."

"Not to me," said Caroline.

She rose, and went abruptly out of the room again. Rebecca also rose

and hurried after her, sobbing loudly.

Henry looked slowly after them.

"Caroline is completely unstrung," said he.

Mrs. Brigham rocked. A confidence in him inspired by his manner was

stealing over her. Out of that confidence she spoke quite easily and

naturally.

"His death was very sudden," said she.

Henry's eyelids quivered slightly but his gaze was unswerving.

"Yes," said he; "it was very sudden. He was sick only a few hours."

"What did you call it?"

"Gastric."

"You did not think of an examination?"

"There was no need. I am perfectly certain as to the cause of his

death."

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham felt a creep as of some live horror over her very

soul. Her flesh prickled with cold, before an inflection of his voice.

She rose, tottering on weak knees.

"Where are you going?" asked Henry in a strange, breathless voice.

Mrs. Brigham said something incoherent about some sewing which she had

to do, some black for the funeral, and was out of the room. She went

up to the front chamber which she occupied. Caroline was there. She

went close to her and took her hands, and the two sisters looked at

each other.

"Don't speak, don't, I won't have it!" said Caroline finally in an

awful whisper.

"I won't," replied Emma.

That afternoon the three sisters were in the study, the large front

room on the ground floor across the hall from the south parlour, when

the dusk deepened.

Mrs. Brigham was hemming some black material. She sat close to the

west window for the waning light. At last she laid her work on her lap.

"It's no use, I cannot see to sew another stitch until we have a

light," said she.

Caroline, who was writing some letters at the table, turned to Rebecca,

in her usual place on the sofa.

"Rebecca, you had better get a lamp," she said.

Rebecca started up; even in the dusk her face showed her agitation.

"It doesn't seem to me that we need a lamp quite yet," she said in a

piteous, pleading voice like a child's.

"Yes, we do," returned Mrs. Brigham peremptorily. "We must have a

light. I must finish this to-night or I can't go to the funeral, and I

can't see to sew another stitch."

"Caroline can see to write letters, and she is farther from the window

than you are," said Rebecca.

"Are you trying to save kerosene or are you lazy, Rebecca Glynn?" cried

Mrs. Brigham. "I can go and get the light myself, but I have this work

all in my lap."

Caroline's pen stopped scratching.

"Rebecca, we must have the light," said she.

"Had we better have it in here?" asked Rebecca weakly.

"Of course! Why not?" cried Caroline sternly.

"I am sure I don't want to take my sewing into the other room, when it

is all cleaned up for to-morrow," said Mrs. Brigham.

"Why, I never heard such a to-do about lighting a lamp."

Rebecca rose and left the room. Presently she entered with a lamp--a

large one with a white porcelain shade. She set it on a table, an

old-fashioned card-table which was placed against the opposite wall

from the window. That wall was clear of bookcases and books, which

were only on three sides of the room. That opposite wall was taken up

with three doors, the one small space being occupied by the table.

Above the table on the old-fashioned paper, of a white satin gloss,

traversed by an indeterminate green scroll, hung quite high a small

gilt and black-framed ivory miniature taken in her girlhood of the

mother of the family. When the lamp was set on the table beneath it,

the tiny pretty face painted on the ivory seemed to gleam out with a

look of intelligence.

"What have you put that lamp over there for?" asked Mrs. Brigham, with

more of impatience than her voice usually revealed. "Why didn't you

set it in the hall and have done with it? Neither Caroline nor I can

see if it is on that table."

"I thought perhaps you would move," replied Rebecca hoarsely.

"If I do move, we can't both sit at that table. Caroline has her paper

all spread around. Why don't you set the lamp on the study table in

the middle of the room, then we can both see?"

Rebecca hesitated. Her face was very pale. She looked with an appeal

that was fairly agonizing at her sister Caroline.

"Why don't you put the lamp on this table, as she says?" asked

Caroline, almost fiercely. "Why do you act so, Rebecca?"

"I should think you _would_ ask her that," said Mrs. Brigham. "She

doesn't act like herself at all."

Rebecca took the lamp and set it on the table in the middle of the room

without another word. Then she turned her back upon it quickly and

seated herself on the sofa, and placed a hand over her eyes as if to

shade them, and remained so.

"Does the light hurt your eyes, and is that the reason why you didn't

want the lamp?" asked Mrs. Brigham kindly.

"I always like to sit in the dark," replied Rebecca chokingly.

Then she snatched her handkerchief hastily from her pocket and began to

weep. Caroline continued to write, Mrs. Brigham to sew.

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham as she sewed glanced at the opposite wall. The

glance became a steady stare. She looked intently, her work suspended

in her hands. Then she looked away again and took a few more stitches,

then she looked again, and again turned to her task. At last she laid

her work in her lap and stared concentratedly. She looked from the

wall around the room, taking note of the various objects; she looked at

the wall long and intently. Then she turned to her sisters.

"What _is_ that?" said she.

"What?" asked Caroline harshly; her pen scratched loudly across the

paper.

Rebecca gave one of her convulsive gasps.

"That strange shadow on the wall," replied Mrs. Brigham.

Rebecca sat with her face hidden: Caroline dipped her pen in the

inkstand.

"Why don't you turn around and look?" asked Mrs. Brigham in a wondering

and somewhat aggrieved way.

"I am in a hurry to finish this letter, if Mrs. Wilson Ebbit is going

to get word in time to come to the funeral," replied Caroline shortly.

Mrs. Brigham rose, her work slipping to the floor, and she began

walking around the room, moving various articles of furniture, with her

eyes on the shadow.

Then suddenly she shrieked out:

"Look at this awful shadow! What is it? Caroline, look, look!

Rebecca, look! _What is it_?"

All Mrs. Brigham's triumphant placidity was gone. Her handsome face

was livid with horror. She stood stiffly pointing at the shadow.

"Look!" said she, pointing her finger at it. "Look! What is it?"

Then Rebecca burst out in a wild wail after a shuddering glance at the

wall:

"Oh, Caroline, there it is again! There it is again!"

"Caroline Glynn, you look!" said Mrs. Brigham. "Look! What is that

dreadful shadow?"

Caroline rose, turned, and stood confronting the wall.

"How should I know?" she said.

"It has been there every night since he died," cried Rebecca.--"Every

night?"

"Yes. He died Thursday and this is Saturday; that makes three nights,"

said Caroline rigidly. She stood as if holding herself calm with a

vise of concentrated will.

"It--it looks like--like----" stammered Mrs. Brigham in a tone of

intense horror.--"I know what it looks like well enough," said

Caroline. "I've got eyes in my head."

"It looks like Edward," burst out Rebecca in a sort of frenzy of fear.

"Only----"

"Yes, it does," assented Mrs. Brigham, whose horror-stricken tone

matched her sister's, "only---- Oh, it is awful! What is it,

Caroline?"

"I ask you again, how should I know?" replied Caroline. "I see it

there like you. How should I know any more than you?"--"It _must_ be

something in the room," said Mrs. Brigham, staring wildly around.

"We moved everything in the room the first night it came," said

Rebecca; "it is not anything in the room."

Caroline turned upon her with a sort of fury. "Of course it is

something in the room," said she. "How you act! What do you mean by

talking so? Of course it is something in the room."

"Of course, it is," agreed Mrs. Brigham, looking at Caroline

suspiciously. "Of course it must be. It is only a coincidence. It

just happens so. Perhaps it is that fold of the window curtain that

makes it. It must be something in the room."

"It is not anything in the room," repeated Rebecca with obstinate

horror.

The door opened suddenly and Henry Glynn entered.

He began to speak, then his eyes followed the direction of the others'.

He stood stock still staring at the shadow on the wall. It was life

size and stretched across the white parallelogram of a door, half

across the wall space on which the picture hung.

"What is that?" he demanded in a strange voice.

"It must be due to something in the room," Mrs. Brigham said faintly.

"It is not due to anything in the room," said Rebecca again with the

shrill insistency of terror.

"How you act, Rebecca Glynn," said Caroline.

Henry Glynn stood and stared a moment longer. His face showed a gamut

of emotions--horror, conviction, then furious incredulity. Suddenly he

began hastening hither and thither about the room. He moved the

furniture with fierce jerks, turning ever to see the effect upon the

shadow on the wall. Not a line of its terrible outlines wavered.

"It must be something in the room!" he declared in a voice which seemed

to snap like a lash.

His face changed. The inmost secrecy of his nature seemed evident

until one almost lost sight of his lineaments. Rebecca stood close to

her sofa, regarding him with woeful, fascinated eyes. Mrs. Brigham

clutched Caroline's hand. They both stood in a corner out of his way.

For a few moments he raged about the room like a caged wild animal. He

moved every piece of furniture; when the moving of a piece did not

affect the shadow, he flung it to the floor, the sisters watching.

Then suddenly he desisted. He laughed and began straightening the

furniture which he had flung down.

"What an absurdity," he said easily. "Such a to-do about a shadow."

"That's so," assented Mrs. Brigham, in a scared voice which she tried

to make natural. As she spoke she lifted a chair near her.

"I think you have broken the chair that Edward was so fond of," said

Caroline.

Terror and wrath were struggling for expression on her face. Her mouth

was set, her eyes shrinking. Henry lifted the chair with a show of

anxiety.

"Just as good as ever," he said pleasantly. He laughed again, looking

at his sisters. "Did I scare you?" he said. "I should think you might

be used to me by this time. You know my way of wanting to leap to the

bottom of a mystery, and that shadow does look--queer, like--and I

thought if there was any way of accounting for it I would like to

without any delay."--"You don't seem to have succeeded," remarked

Caroline dryly, with a slight glance at the wall.

Henry's eyes followed hers and he quivered perceptibly.

"Oh, there is no accounting for shadows," he said, and he laughed

again. "A man is a fool to try to account for shadows."

Then the supper bell rang, and they all left the room, but Henry kept

his back to the wall, as did, indeed, the others.

Mrs. Brigham pressed close to Caroline as she crossed the hall. "He

looked like a demon!" she breathed in her ear.

Henry led the way with an alert motion like a boy; Rebecca brought up

the rear; she could scarcely walk, her knees trembled so.

"I can't sit in that room again this evening," she whispered to

Caroline after supper.

"Very well, we will sit in the south room," replied Caroline. "I think

we will sit in the south parlour," she said aloud; "it isn't as damp as

the study, and I have a cold."

So they all sat in the south room with their sewing. Henry read the

newspaper, his chair drawn close to the lamp on the table. About nine

o'clock he rose abruptly and crossed the hall to the study. The three

sisters looked at one another. Mrs. Brigham rose, folded her rustling

skirts compactly around her, and began tiptoeing toward the door.

"What are you going to do?" inquired Rebecca agitatedly.--"I am going

to see what he is about," replied Mrs. Brigham cautiously.

She pointed as she spoke to the study door across the hall; it was

ajar. Henry had striven to pull it together behind him, but it had

somehow swollen beyond the limit with curious speed. It was still ajar

and a streak of light showed from top to bottom. The hall lamp was not

lit.

"You had better stay where you are," said Caroline with guarded

sharpness.

"I am going to see," repeated Mrs. Brigham firmly.

Then she folded her skirts so tightly that her bulk with its swelling

curves was revealed in a black silk sheath, and she went with a slow

toddle across the hall to the study door. She stood there, her eye at

the crack.

In the south room Rebecca stopped sewing and sat watching with dilated

eyes. Caroline sewed steadily. What Mrs. Brigham, standing at the

crack in the study door, saw was this:

Henry Glynn, evidently reasoning that the source of the strange shadow

must be between the table on which the lamp stood and the wall, was

making systematic passes and thrusts all over and through the

intervening space with an old sword which had belonged to his father.

Not an inch was left unpierced. He seemed to have divided the space

into mathematical sections. He brandished the sword with a sort of

cold fury and calculation; the blade gave out flashes of light, the

shadow remained unmoved. Mrs. Brigham, watching, felt herself cold

with horror.

Finally Henry ceased and stood with the sword in hand and raised as if

to strike, surveying the shadow on the wall threateningly. Mrs.

Brigham toddled back across the hall and shut the south room door

behind her before she related what she had seen.

"He looked like a demon!" she said again. "Have you got any of that

old wine in the house, Caroline? I don't feel as if I could stand much

more."

Indeed, she looked overcome. Her handsome placid face was worn and

strained and pale.

"Yes, there's plenty," said Caroline; "you can have some when you go to

bed."

"I think we had all better take some," said Mrs. Brigham.

"Oh, my God, Caroline, what----"

"Don't ask and don't speak," said Caroline.

"No, I am not going to," replied Mrs. Brigham; "but----"

Rebecca moaned aloud.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Caroline harshly.

"Poor Edward," returned Rebecca.

"That is all you have to groan for," said Caroline. "There is nothing

else."

"I am going to bed," said Mrs. Brigham. "I sha'n't be able to be at

the funeral if I don't."

Soon the three sisters went to their chambers and the south parlour was

deserted. Caroline called to Henry in the study to put out the light

before he came upstairs. They had been gone about an hour when he came

into the room bringing the lamp which had stood in the study. He set

it on the table and waited a few minutes, pacing up and down. His face

was terrible, his fair complexion showed livid; his blue eyes seemed

dark blanks of awful reflections.

Then he took the lamp up and returned to the library. He set the lamp

on the centre table, and the shadow sprang out on the wall. Again he

studied the furniture and moved it about, but deliberately, with none

of his former frenzy. Nothing affected the shadow. Then he returned

to the south room with the lamp and again waited. Again he returned to

the study and placed the lamp on the table, and the shadow sprang out

upon the wall. It was midnight before he went upstairs. Mrs. Brigham

and the other sisters, who could not sleep, heard him.

The next day was the funeral. That evening the family sat in the south

room. Some relatives were with them. Nobody entered the study until

Henry carried a lamp in there after the others had retired for the

night. He saw again the shadow on the wall leap to an awful life

before the light.

The next morning at breakfast Henry Glynn announced that he had to go

to the city for three days. The sisters looked at him with surprise.

He very seldom left home, and just now his practice had been neglected

on account of Edward's death. He was a physician.

"How can you leave your patients now?" asked Mrs. Brigham wonderingly.

"I don't know how to, but there is no other way," replied Henry easily.

"I have had a telegram from Doctor Mitford."

"Consultation?" inquired Mrs. Brigham.

"I have business," replied Henry.

Doctor Mitford was an old classmate of his who lived in a neighbouring

city and who occasionally called upon him in the case of a consultation.

After he had gone Mrs. Brigham said to Caroline that after all Henry

had not said that he was going to consult with Doctor Mitford, and she

thought it very strange.

"Everything is very strange," said Rebecca with a shudder.

"What do you mean?" inquired Caroline sharply.

"Nothing," replied Rebecca.

Nobody entered the library that day, nor the next, nor the next. The

third day Henry was expected home, but he did not arrive and the last

train from the city had come.

"I call it pretty queer work," said Mrs. Brigham. "The idea of a

doctor leaving his patients for three days anyhow, at such a time as

this, and I know he has some very sick ones; he said so. And the idea

of a consultation lasting three days! There is no sense in it, and

_now_ he has not come. I don't understand it, for my part."

"I don't either," said Rebecca.

They were all in the south parlour. There was no light in the study

opposite, and the door was ajar.

Presently Mrs. Brigham rose--she could not have told why; something

seemed to impel her, some will outside her own. She went out of the

room, again wrapping her rustling skirts around that she might pass

noiselessly, and began pushing at the swollen door of the study.

"She has not got any lamp," said Rebecca in a shaking voice.

Caroline, who was writing letters, rose again, took a lamp (there were

two in the room) and followed her sister. Rebecca had risen, but she

stood trembling, not venturing to follow. The doorbell rang, but the

others did not hear it; it was on the south door on the other side of

the house from the study. Rebecca, after hesitating until the bell

rang the second time, went to the door; she remembered that the servant

was out.

Caroline and her sister Emma entered the study. Caroline set the lamp

on the table. They looked at the wall. "Oh, my God," gasped Mrs.

Brigham, "there are--there are two--shadows." The sisters stood

clutching each other, staring at the awful things on the wall. Then

Rebecca came in, staggering, with a telegram in her hand. "Here is--a

telegram," she gasped. "Henry is--dead."

MAJOR PERDUE'S BARGAIN

By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Copyright 1899 by Charles Scribner's Sons.

When next I had an opportunity to talk with Aunt Minervy Ann, she

indulged in a hearty laugh before saying a word, and it was some time

before she found her voice.

"What is so funny to-day?" I inquired.

"Me, suh--nothin' tall 'bout me, an' 'tain't only ter day, nudder.

Hit's eve'y day sence I been big 'nuff fer to see myse'f in de spring

branch. I laughed den, an' I laugh now eve'y time I see myse'f in my

min'--ef I' got any min'. I wuz talkin' ter Hamp las' night an'

tellin' 'im how I start in ter tell you sump'n 'bout Marse Paul Conant'

shoulder, an' den eend up by tellin' you eve'ything else I know but dat.

"Hamp low, he did, 'Dat ain't nothin', bekaze when I ax you ter marry

me, you start in an' tell me 'bout a nigger gal 'cross dar in Jasper

County, which she make promise fer ter marry a man an' she crossed her

heart; an' den when de time come she stood up an' marry 'im an' fin'

out 'tain't de same man, but somebody what she ain't never see' befo'.'

"I 'speck dat's so, suh, bekaze dey wuz sump'n like dat happen in

Jasper County. You know de Waters fambly--dey kep' race-hosses. Well,

suh, 'twuz right on der plantation. Warren Waters tol' me 'bout dat

hisse'f. He wuz de hoss-trainer, an' he 'uz right dar on de groun'.

When de gal done married, she look up an' holler, 'You ain't my

husban', bekaze I ain't make no promise fer ter marry you.' De man he

laugh, an' say, 'Don't need no promise atter you done married.'

"Well, suh, dey say dat gal wuz skeer'd--skeer'd fer true. She sot on'

look in der fire. De man sot an' look at 'er. She try ter slip out de

do', an' he slipped wid 'er. She walked to'rds de big house, an' he

walkt wid 'er. She come back, an' he come wid 'er. She run an' he run

wid 'er. She cry an' he laugh at 'er. She dunner what to do. Bimeby

she tuck a notion dat de man mought be de Ol' Boy hisse'f, an' she

dropped down on her knees an' 'gun ter pray. Dis make de man restless;

look like he frettin'. Den he 'gun ter shake like he havin' chill.

Den he slip down out'n de cheer. Down he went on his all-fours. Den

his cloze drapped off, an' bless gracious! dar he wuz, a great big

black shaggy dog wid a short chain roun' his neck. Some un um flung a

chunk of fire at 'im, an' he run out howlin'.

"Dat wuz de last dey seed un 'im, suh. Dey flung his cloze in de fire,

an' dey make a blaze dat come plum out'n de top er de chimbley stack.

Dat what make me tell Hamp 'bout it, suh. He ax me fer ter marry 'im,

an' I wan't so mighty sho' dat he wan't de Ol' Boy."

"Well, that is queer, if true," said I, "but how about Mr. Conant's

crippled shoulder?"

"Oh, it's de trufe, suh. Warren Waters tol' me dat out'n his own mouf,

an' he wuz right dar. I dunno but what de gal wuz some er his kinnery.

I don't min' tellin' you dat 'bout Marse Paul, suh, but you mustn't let

on 'bout it, bekaze Marse Tumlin an' Miss Vallie des' ez tetchous 'bout

dat ez dey kin be. I'd never git der fergivunce ef dey know'd I was

settin' down here tellin' 'bout dat.

"You know how 'twaz in dem days. De folks what wuz de richest wuz de

wussest off when de army come home from battlin'. I done tol' you

'bout Marse Tumlin. He ain't had nothin' in de roun' worl' but a whole

passel er lan', an' me an' Miss Vallie. I don't count Hamp, bekaze

Hamp 'fuse ter blieve he's free twel he ramble 'roun' an' fin' out de

patterollers ain't gwine ter take 'im up. Dat how come I had ter sell

ginger-cakes an' chicken-pies dat time. De money I made at dat ain't

last long, bekaze Marse Tumlin he been use' ter rich vittles, an' he

went right downtown an' got a bottle er chow-chow, an' some olives, an'

some sardines, an' some cheese, an' you know yo'se'f, suh, dat money

ain't gwine ter las' when you buy dat kin' er doin's.

"Well, suh, we done mighty well whiles de money helt out, but 'tain't

court-week all de time, an' when dat de case, money got ter come fum

some'rs else 'sides sellin' cakes an' pies. Bimeby, Hamp he got work

at de liberty stable, whar dey hire out hosses an' board um. I call it

a hoss tavern, suh, but Hamp, he 'low it's a liberty stable. Anyhow,

he got work dar, an' dat sorter he'p out. Sometimes he'd growl bekaze

I tuck his money fer ter he'p out my white folks, but when he got right

mad I'd gi' Miss Vallie de wink, an' she'd say: 'Hampton, how'd you

like ter have a little dram ter-night? You look like youer tired.' I

could a-hugged 'er fer de way she done it, she 'uz dat cute. An' den

Hamp, he'd grin an' low, 'I ain't honin' fer it, Miss Vallie, but

'twon't do me no harm, an' it may do me good.'

"An' den, suh, he'd set down, an' atter he got sorter warmed up wid de

dram, he'd kinder roll his eye and low, 'Miss Vallie, she is a fine

white 'oman!' Well, suh, 'tain't long 'fo' we had dat nigger man

trained--done trained, bless you' soul! One day Miss Vallie had ter go

'cross town, an' she went by de liberty stable whar Hamp wuz at,

leastways, he seed 'er some'rs; an' he come home dat night lookin' like

he wuz feelin' bad. He 'fuse ter talk. Bimeby, atter he had his

supper, he say, 'I seed Miss Vallie downtown ter-day. She wuz wid Miss

Irene, an' dat 'ar frock she had on look mighty shabby.' I low, 'Well,

it de bes' she got. She ain't got money like de Chippendales, an' Miss

Irene don't keer how folks' cloze look. She too much quality fer dat.'

Hamp say, 'Whyn't you take some er yo' money an' make Miss Vallie git

er nice frock?' I low, 'Whar I got any money?' Hamp he hit his pocket

an' say, 'You got it right here.'

"An' sho' 'nuff, suh, dat nigger man had a roll er money--mos' twenty

dollars. Some hoss drovers had come long an' Hamp made dat money by

trimmin' up de ol' mules dey had an' makin' um look young. He's got de

art er dat, suh, an' dey paid 'im well. Dar wuz de money, but how wuz

I gwine ter git it in Miss Vallie's han'? I kin buy vittles an' she

not know whar dey come fum, but when it come ter buyin' frocks--well,

suh, hit stumped me. Dey wan't but one way ter do it, an' I done it.

I make like I wuz mad. I tuck de money an' went in de house dar whar

Miss Vallie wuz sewin' an' mendin'. I went stompin' in, I did, an'

when I got in I started my tune.

"I low, 'Ef de Perdues gwine ter go scandalizin' deyse'f by trottin'

down town in broad daylight wid all kinder frocks on der back, I'm

gwine 'way fum here; an' I dun'ner but what I'll go anyhow. 'Tain't

bekaze dey's any lack er money, fer here de money right here.' Wid dat

I slammed it down on de table. 'Dar! take dat an' git you a frock

dat'll make you look like sump'n when you git outside er dis house.

An' whiles you er gittin', git sump'n for ter put on yo' head!'"

Whether it was by reason of a certain dramatic faculty inherent in her

race that she was able to summon emotions at will, or whether it was

mere unconscious reproduction, I am not prepared to say. But certain

it is that, in voice and gesture, in tone and attitude, and in a

certain passionate earnestness of expression, Aunt Minervy Ann built up

the whole scene before my eyes with such power that I seemed to have

been present when it occurred. I felt as if she had conveyed me bodily

into the room to become a witness of the episode. She went on, still

with a frown on her face and a certain violence of tone and manner:

"I whipped 'roun' de room a time er two, pickin' up de cheers an'

slammin' um down agin, an' knockin' things 'roun' like I wuz mad. Miss

Vallie put her sewin' down an' lay her han' on de money. She low,

'What's dis, Aunt Minervy Ann?' I say, 'Hit's money, dat what

'tis--nothin' but nasty, stinkin' money! I wish dey wan't none in de

worl' less'n I had a bairlful.' She sorter fumble at de money wid 'er

fingers. You dunno, suh, how white an' purty an' weak her han' look

ter me dat night. She low, 'Aunt Minervy Ann, I can't take dis.' I

blaze' out at 'er, 'You don't hafter take it; you done got it! An' ef

you don't keep it, I'll rake up eve'y rag an' scrap I got an' leave dis

place. Now, you des' try me!'"

[Illustration: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman]

Again Aunt Minervy Ann summoned to her aid the passion of a moment that

had passed away, and again I had the queer experience of seeming to

witness the whole scene. She continued:

"Wid dat, I whipt out er de room an' out er de house an' went an' sot

down out dar in my house whar Hamp was at. Hamp, he low, 'What she

say?' I say, 'She ain't had time ter say nothin'--I come 'way fum

dar.' He low, 'You ain't brung dat money back, is you?' I say: 'Does

you think I'm a start naked fool?' He low: 'Kaze ef you is, I'll put

it right spang in de fire here.'

"Well, suh, I sot dar some little time, but eve'ything wuz so still in

de house, bein's Marse Tumlin done gone downtown, dat I crope back an'

crope in fer ter see what Miss Vallie doin'. Well, suh, she wuz

cryin'--settin' dar cryin'. I 'low, 'Honey, is I say anything fer ter

hurt yo' feelin's?' She blubber' out, 'You know you ain't!' an' den

she cry good-fashion.

"Des 'bout dat time, who should come in but Marse Tumlin. He look at

Miss Vallie an' den he look at me. He say, 'Valentine, what de

matter?' I say, 'It's me! I'm de one! I made 'er cry. I done sump'n

ter hurt 'er feelin's.' She low, ''Tain't so, an' you know it. I'm

des cryin' bekaze you too good ter me.'

"Well, suh, I had ter git out er dar fer ter keep fum chokin'. Marse

Tumlin foller me out, an' right here on de porch, he low, 'Minervy Ann,

nex' time don't be so dam good to 'er.' I wuz doin' some snifflin'

myse'f 'bout dat time, an' I ain't keerin' what I say, so I stop an'

flung back at 'im, '_I'll be des es dam good ter 'er ez I please--I'm

free_!' Well, suh, stidder hittin' me, Marse Tumlin bust out laughin',

an' long atter dat he'd laugh eve'y time he look at me, des like sump'n

wuz ticklin' 'im mighty nigh ter death.

"I 'speck he must er tol' 'bout dat cussin' part, bekaze folks 'roun'

here done got de idee dat I'm a sassy an' bad-tempered 'oman. Ef I had

ter work fer my livin', suh, I boun' you I'd be a long time findin' a

place. Atter dat, Hamp, he got in de Legislatur', an' it sho' wuz a

money-makin' place. Den we had eve'ything we wanted, an' mo' too, but

bimeby de Legislatur' gun out, an' den dar we wuz, flat ez flounders,

an' de white folks don't want ter hire Hamp des kaze he been ter de

Legislatur'; but he got back in de liberty stable atter so long a time.

Yit 'twa'n't what you may call livin'.

"All dat time, I hear Marse Tumlin talkin' ter Miss Vallie 'bout what

he call his wil' lan'. He say he got two thousan' acres down dar in de

wiregrass, an' ef he kin sell it, he be mighty glad ter do so. Well,

suh, one day, long to'rds night, a two-hoss waggin driv' in at de side

gate an' come in de back-yard. Ol' Ben Sadler wuz drivin', an' he low,

'Heyo, Minervy Ann, whar you want deze goods drapped at?' I say,

'Hello yo'se'f, ef you wanter hello. What you got dar, an' who do it

'blong ter?' He low, 'Hit's goods fer Major Tumlin Perdue, an' whar

does you want um drapped at?' Well, suh, I ain't know what ter say,

but I run'd an' ax'd Miss Vallie, an' she say put um out anywheres

'roun' dar, kaze she dunner nothin' 'bout um. So ol' Ben Sadler, he

put um out, an' when I come ter look at um, dey wuz a bairl er sump'n,

an' a kaig er sump'n, an' a box er sump'n. De bairl shuck like it

mought be lasses, an' de kaig shuck like it mought be dram, an' de box

hefted like it mought be terbarker. An', sho' 'nuff, dat what dey

wuz--a bairl er sorghum syr'p, an' a kaig er peach brandy, an' a box er

plug terbarker.

"I say right den, an' Miss Vallie 'll tell you de same, dat Marse

Tumlin done gone an' swap off all his wil' lan', but Miss Vallie, she

say no; he won't never think er seen a thing; but, bless yo' soul, suh,

she wa'n't nothin' but a school-gal, you may say, an' she ain't know no

mo' 'bout men folks dan what a weasel do. An den, right 'pon top er

dat, here come a nigger boy leadin' a bob-tail hoss. When I see dat, I

dez good ez know'd dat de wil' lan' done been swap off, bekaze Marse

Tumlin ain't got nothin' fer ter buy all dem things wid, an' I tell you

right now, suh, I wuz rank mad, kase what we want wid any ol' bob-tail

hoss? De sorghum mought do, an' de dram kin be put up wid, an' de

terbarker got some comfort in it, but what de name er goodness we gwine

ter do wid dat ol' hoss, when we ain't got hardly 'nuff vittles fer ter

feed ourse'f wid? Dat what I ax Miss Vallie, an' she say right

pine-blank she dunno.

"Well, suh, it's de Lord's trufe, I wuz dat mad I dunner what I say,

an' I wa'n't keerin' nudder, bekaze I know how we had ter pinch an'

squeeze fer ter git long in dis house. But I went 'bout gittin'

supper, an' bimeby, Hamp, he come, an' I told 'im 'bout de ol' bob-tail

hoss, an' he went out an' look at 'im. Atter while, here he come back

laughin', I say, 'You well ter laugh at dat ol' hoss.' He, 'low, 'I

ain't laughin' at de hoss. I'm laughin' at you. Gal, dat de finest

hoss what ever put foot on de groun' in dis town. Dat's Marse Paul

Conant's trottin' hoss. He'll fetch fi' hunder'd dollars any day.

What he doin' here?' I up an' tol' 'im all I know'd, an' he shuck his

head; he low, 'Gal, you lay low. Dey's sump'n n'er behime all dat.'

"What Hamp say sorter make me put on my studyin'-cap; but when you come

ter look at it, suh, dey wa'n't nothin' 'tall fer me ter study 'bout.

All I had ter do wuz ter try ter fin' out what wuz behime it, an' let

it go at dat. When Marse Tumlin come home ter supper, I know'd sump'n

wuz de matter wid 'im. I know'd it by his looks, suh. It's sorter wid

folks like 'tis wid chillun. Ef you keer 'sump'n 'bout um you'll watch

der motions, and ef you watch der motions dey don't hatter tell you

when sump'n de matter. He come in so easy, suh, dat Miss Vallie ain't

hear 'im, but I hear de do' screak, an' I know'd 'twuz him. We wuz

talkin' an' gwine on at a mighty rate, an' I know'd he done stop ter

lis'n.

"Miss Vallie, she low she 'speck somebody made 'im a present er dem ar

things. I say, 'Uh-uh, honey! don't you fool yo'se'f. Nobody ain't

gwine ter do dat. Our folks ain't no mo' like dey useter wuz, dan

crabapples is like plums. Dey done come ter dat pass dat whatsomever

dey gits der han's on dey 'fuse ter turn it loose. All un um, 'cep'

Marse Tumlin Perdue. Dey ain't no tellin' what he gun fer all dat

trash. _Trash_! Hit's wuss'n trash! I wish you'd go out dar an' look

at dat ol' bob-tail hoss. Why dat ol' hoss wuz stove up long 'fo' de

war. By rights he ought ter be in de bone-yard dis ve'y minnit. He

won't be here two whole days 'fo' you'll see de buzzards lined up out

dar on de back fence waitin', an' dey won't hatter wait long nudder.

Ef dey sen' any corn here fer ter feed dat bag er bones wid, I'll parch

it an' eat it myse'f 'fo' he shill have it. Ef anybody 'speck I'm

gwine ter 'ten' ter dat ol' frame, deyer 'speckin' wid de wrong specks,

I tell you dat right now.'

"All dis time Marse Tumlin wuz stan'in' out in de hall lis'nin'. Miss

Vallie talk mighty sweet 'bout it. She say, 'Ef dey ain't nobody else

ter 'ten' de hoss, reckin I kin do it.' I low, 'My life er me, honey!

de nex' news you know you'll be hirin' out ter de liberty stable.'

"Well, suh, my talk 'gun ter git so hot dat Marse Tumlin des had ter

make a fuss. He fumbled wid de do' knob, an' den come walkin' down de

hall, an' by dat time I wuz in de dinin'-room. I walk mighty light,

bekaze ef he say anything I want ter hear it. You can't call it

eave-drappin', suh; hit look ter me dat 'twuz ez much my business ez

'twuz dern, an' I ain't never got dat idee out'n my head down ter dis

day.

"But Marse Tumlin ain't say nothin', 'cep' fer ter ax Miss Vallie ef

she feelin' well, an' how eve'ything wuz, but de minnit I hear 'im open

his mouf I know'd he had trouble on his min'. I can't tell you how I

know'd it, suh, but dar 'twuz. Look like he tried to hide it, bekaze

he tol' a whole lot of funny tales 'bout folks, an' 'twa'n't long befo'

he had Miss Vallie laughin' fit ter kill. But he ain't fool me, suh.

"Bimeby, Miss Vallie, she come in de dinin'-room fer ter look atter

settin' de table, bekaze fum a little gal she allers like ter have de

dishes fix des so. She wuz sorter hummin' a chune, like she ain't want

ter talk, but I ain't let dat stan' in my way.

"I low, 'I wish eve'ybody wuz like dat Mr. Paul Conant. I bet you

right now he been downtown dar all day makin' money han' over fist, des

ez fast ez he can rake it in. I know it, kaze I does his washin' and

cleans up his room fer 'im.'

"Miss Vallie say, 'Well, what uv it? Money don't make 'im no better'n

anybody else.' I low, 'Hit don't make 'im no wuss; an' den, 'sides

dat, he ain't gwine ter let nobody swindle 'im.'

"By dat time, I hatter go out an' fetch supper in, an' 'tain't take me

no time, bekaze I wuz des' achin' fer ter hear how Marse Tumlin come by

dem ar contraptions an' contrivances. An' I stayed in dar ter wait on

de table, which it ain't need no waitin' on.

"Atter while, I low, 'Marse Tumlin, I like ter forgot ter tell

you--you' things done come.' He say, 'What things, Minervy Ann?' I

low, 'Dem ar contraptions, an' dat ar bob-tail hoss. He look mighty

lean an' hongry, de hoss do, but Hamp he say dat's bekaze he's a

high-bred hoss. He say dem ar high-bred hosses won't take on no fat,

no matter how much you feed urn.'

"Marse Tumlin sorter drum on de table. Atter while he low, 'Dey done

come, is dey, Minervy Ann?' I say, 'Yasser, dey er here right now.

Hamp puts it down dat dat ar hoss oneer de gayliest creatur's what ever

make a track in dis town.'

"Well, suh, 'tain't no use ter tell you what else wuz said, kaze

'twan't much. I seed dat Marse Tumlin wan't gwine ter talk 'bout it,

on account er bein' 'fear'd he'd hurt Miss Vallie's feelin's ef he tol'

'er dat he done swap off all dat wil' lan' fer dem ar things an' dat ar

bob-tail hoss. Dat what he done. Yasser! I hear 'im sesso

afterwards. He swap it off ter Marse Paul Conant.

"I thank my Lord it come out all right, but it come mighty nigh bein'

de ruination er de fambly."

"How was that?" I inquired.

"Dat what I'm gwine ter tell you, suh. Right atter supper dat night,

Marse Tumlin say he got ter go down town fer ter see a man on some

business, an' he ax me ef I won't stay in de house dar wid Miss Vallie.

'Twa'n't no trouble ter me, bekaze I'd 'a' been on de place anyhow, an'

so when I got de kitchen cleaned up an' de things put away, I went back

in de house whar Miss Vallie wuz at Marse Tumlin wuz done gone.

"Miss Vallie, she sot at de table doin' some kind er rufflin', an' I

sot back ag'in de wall in one er dem ar high-back cheers. What we said

I'll never tell you, suh, bekaze I'm one er deze kinder folks what

ain't no sooner set down an' git still dan dey goes ter noddin'. Dat's

me. Set me down in a cheer, high-back er low-back, an' I'm done gone!

I kin set here on de step an' keep des ez wide-'wake ez a skeer'd

rabbit, but set me down in a cheer--well, suh, I'd like ter see anybody

keep me 'wake when dat's de case.

"Dar I sot in dat ar high-back cheer, Miss Vallie rufflin' an' flutin'

sump'n, an' tryin' ter make me talk, an' my head rollin' 'roun' like my

neck done broke. Bimeby, _blam_! _blam_! come on de do'. We got one

er dem ar jinglin' bells now, suh, but in dem times we had a knocker,

an' it soun' like de roof fallin' in. I like ter jumped out'n my skin.

Miss Vallie drapped her conflutements an' low, 'What in de worl'! Aunt

Minervy Ann, go ter de do.'

"Well, suh, I went, but I ain't had no heart in it, bekaze I ain't know

who it mought be, an' whar dey come fum, an' what dey want. But I

went. 'Twuz me er Miss Vallie, an' I wan't gwine ter let dat chile go,

not dat time er night, dough 'twa'n't so mighty late.

"I open de do' on de crack, I did, an' low, 'Who dat?' Somebody make

answer, 'Is de Major in, Aunt Minervy Ann?' an' I know'd right den it

wuz Marse Paul Conant. An' it come over me dat he had sump'n ter do

wid sendin' er dem contraptions, mo' 'speshually dat ar bob-tail hoss.

An' den, too, suh, lots quicker'n I kin tell it, hit come over me dat

he been axin' me lots 'bout Miss Vallie. All come 'cross my min', suh,

whiles I pullin' de do' open.

"I low, I did, 'No, suh; Marse Tumlin gone down town fer ter look atter

some business, but he sho ter come back terreckly. Won't you come in,

suh, an' wait fer 'im?' He sorter flung his head back an' laugh, saft

like, an' say, 'I don't keer ef I do, Aunt Minervy Ann.'

"I low, 'Walk right in de parlor, suh, an' I'll make a light mos' 'fo'

you kin turn 'roun'. He come in, he did, an' I lit de lamp, an' time I

lit 'er she 'gun ter smoke. Well, suh, he tuck dat lamp, run de wick

up an' down a time er two, an' dar she wuz, bright ez day.

"When I went back in de room whar Miss Vallie wuz at, she wuz stan'in'

dar lookin' skeer'd. She say, 'Who dat?' I 'low, 'Hit's Marse Paul

Conant, dat's who 'tis.' She say, 'What he want?' I low, 'Nothin'

much; he does come a-courtin'. Better jump up an' not keep 'im

waitin'.'

"Well, suh, you could 'a' knock'd 'er down wid a fedder. She stood dar

wid 'er han' on 'er th'oat takin' short breffs, des like a little bird

does when it flies in de winder an' dunner how ter fly out ag'in.

"Bimeby, she say, 'Aunt Minervy Ann, you ought ter be 'shame or

yo'se'f! I know dat man when I see 'im, an' dat's all.' I low,

'Honey, you know mighty well he ain't come callin'. But he wanter see

Marse Tumlin, an' dey ain't nothin' fer ter hender you fum gwine in dar

an' makin' 'im feel at home whiles he waitin'.' She sorter study

awhile, an' den she blush up. She say, 'I dunno whedder I ought ter.'

"Well, suh, dat settled it. I know'd by de way she look an' talk dat

she don't need no mo' 'swadin'. I say, 'All right, honey, do ez you

please; but it's yo' house; you er de mist'iss; an' it'll look mighty

funny ef dat young man got ter set in dar by hisse'f an' look at de

wall whiles he waitin' fer Marse Tumlin. I dunner what he'll say, kaze

I ain't never hear 'im talk 'bout nobody; but I know mighty well he'll

do a heap er thinkin'.'

"Des like I tell you, suh--she skipped 'roun' dar, an' flung on 'er

Sunday frock, shuck out 'er curls, an' sorter fumble' 'roun' wid some

ribbons, an' dar she wuz, lookin' des ez fine ez a fiddle, ef not

finer. Den she swep' inter de parlor, an', you mayn't blieve it, suh,

but she mighty nigh tuck de man's breff 'way. Mon, she wuz purty, an'

she ain't do no mo' like deze eve'y-day gals dan nothin'. When she

start 'way fum me, she wuz a gal. By de time she walk up de hall an'

sweep in dat parlor, she wuz a grown 'oman. De blush what she had on

at fust stayed wid 'er an' look like 't wuz er natchual color, an' her

eyes shine, suh, like she had fire in um. I peeped at 'er, suh, fum

behime de curtains in de settin'-room, an' I know what I'm talkin'

'bout. It's de Lord's trufe, suh, ef de men folks could tote derse'f

like de wimmen, an' do one way whiles dey feelin' annuder way, dey

wouldn't be no livin' in de worl'. You take a school gal, suh, an' she

kin fool de smartest man what ever trod shoe leather. He may talk wid

'er all day an' half de night, an' he never is ter fin' out what she

thinkin' 'bout. Sometimes de gals fools deyse'f, suh, but dat's mighty

seldom.

"I dunner what all dey say, kaze I ain't been in dar so mighty long

'fo' I wuz nodding but I did hear Marse Paul say he des drapt in fer

'pollygize 'bout a little joke he played on Marse Tumlin. Miss Vallie

ax what wuz de joke, an' he low dat Marse Tumlin wuz banterin' folks

fer ter buy his wil' lan'; an' Marse Paul ax 'im what he take fer it,

an' Marse Tumlin low he'll take anything what he can chaw, sop, er

drink. Dem wuz de words---chaw, sop, er drink. Wid dat, Marse Paul

say he'd gi' 'im a box er terbarker, a bairl er syr'p, an' a kaig er

peach brandy an' th'ow in his buggy-hoss fer good medjer. Marse Tomlin

say 'done' an' dey shuck han's on it. Dat what Marse Paul tol' Miss

Vallie, an he 'low he des done it fer fun, kaze he done looked inter

dat wil' lan', an' he low she's wuff a pile er money.

"Well, suh, 'bout dat time, I 'gun ter nod, an' de fus news I know'd

Miss Vallie wuz whackin' 'way on de peanner, an' it look like ter me

she wuz des tryin' 'erse'f. By dat time, dey wuz gettin' right chummy,

an' so I des curl up on de flo', an' dream dat de peanner chunes wuz

comin' out'n a bairl des like lasses.

"When I waked up, Marse Paul Conant done gone, an' Marse Tumlin ain't

come, an' Miss Vallie wuz settin' dar in de parlor lookin' up at de

ceilin' like she got some mighty long thoughts. Her color wuz still

up. I look at 'er an' laugh, an' she made a mouf at me, an' I say ter

myse'f, 'Hey! sump'n de matter here, sho,' but I say out loud, 'Marse

Paul Conant sho gwine ter ax me ef you ain't had a dram.' She laugh

an' say, 'What answer you gwine ter make?' I low, 'I'll bow an' say,

"No, suh; I'm de one dat drinks all de dram fer de fambly."'

"Well, suh, dat chile sot in ter laughin', an' she laugh an' laugh twel

she went inter highsterics. She wuz keyed up too high, ez you mought

say, an' dat's de way she come down agin. Bimeby, Marse Tumlin come,

an' Miss Vallie, she tol' 'm 'bout how Marse Paul done been dar; an' he

sot dar, he did, an' hummed an' haw'd, an' done so funny dat, bimeby, I

low, 'Well, folks, I'll hatter tell you good-night,' an' wid dat I went

out."

At this point Aunt Minervy leaned forward, clasped her hands over her

knees, and shook her head. When she took up the thread of her

narrative, if it can be called such, the tone of her voice was more

subdued, almost confidential, in fact.

"Nex' mornin' wuz my wash-day, suh, an' 'bout ten o'clock, when I got

ready, dey want no bluin' in de house an' mighty little soap. I hunted

high an' I hunted low, but no bluin' kin I fin'. An' dat make me mad,

bekaze ef I hatter go down town atter de bluin', my wash-day'll be

broke inter. But 'tain't no good fer ter git mad, bekaze I wuz bleeze

ter go atter de bluin'. So I tighten up my head-hankcher, an' flung a

cape on my shoulders an' put out.

"I 'speck you know how 'tis, suh. You can't go down town but what

you'll see nigger wimmen stan'in' out in de front yards lookin' over de

palin's. Dey all know'd me an' I know'd dem, an' de las' blessed one

un um hatter hail me ez I go by, an' I hatter stop an' pass de time er

day, kaze ef I'd 'a' whipt on by, dey'd 'a' said I wuz gwine back bofe

on my church an' on my color. I dunner how long dey kep' me, but time

I got ter Proctor's sto', I know'd I'd been on de way too long.

"I notice a crowd er men out dar, some settin' an' some stan'in', but I

run'd in, I did, an' de young man what do de clerkin', he foller me in

an' ax what I want. I say I want a dime's wuff er bluin', an' fer ter

please, suh, wrop it up des ez quick ez he kin. I tuck notice dat

while he wuz gittin' it out'n de box, he sorter stop like he lis'nin'

an' den agin, whiles he had it in de scoop des ready fer ter drap it in

de scales, he held his han' an' wait. Den I know'd he wuz lis'nin'.

"Dat makes me lis'n, an' den I hear Marse Tumlin talkin', an' time I

hear 'im I know'd he wuz errytated. Twa'n't bekaze he wuz talkin'

loud, suh, but 'twuz bekaze he wuz talkin' level. When he talk loud,

he feelin' good. When he talk low, an' one word soun' same ez anudder,

den somebody better git out'n his way. I lef' de counter an' step ter

de do' fer ter see what de matter wuz betwix' um.

"Well, suh, dar wuz Marse Tumlin stan'in' dar close ter Tom Ferryman.

Marse Tumlin, low, 'Maybe de law done 'pinted you my gyardeen. How you

know I been swindled?' Tom Ferryman say, 'Bekaze I hear you say he

bought yo' wil' lan' fer a little er nothin'. He'll swindle you ef you

trade wid 'im, an' you done trade wid 'im.' Marse Tumlin low, 'Is Paul

Conant ever swindle _you_?' Tom Ferryman say, 'No, he ain't, an' ef he

wuz ter I'd give 'im a kickin'.' Marse Tumlin low, 'Well, you know you

is a swindler, an' nobody ain't kick you. How come dat?' Tom Ferryman

say, 'Ef you say I'm a swindler, you're a liar.'

"Well, suh, de man ain't no sooner say dat dan _bang_! went Marse

Tumlin's pistol, an' des ez it banged Marse Paul Conant run 'twix' um,

an' de ball went right spang th'oo de collar-bone an' sorter sideways

th'oo de pint er de shoulder-blade. Marse Tumlin drapt his pistol an'

cotch 'im ez he fell an' knelt down dar by 'im, an' all de time dat ar

Tom Ferryman wuz stan'in' right over um wid his pistol in his han'. I

squall out, I did, 'Whyn't some er you white men take dat man pistol

'way fum 'im? Don't you see what he fixin' ter do?'

"I run'd at 'im, an' he sorter flung back wid his arm, an' when he done

dat somebody grab 'im fum behind. All dat time Marse Tumlin wuz axin'

Marse Paul Conant ef he hurt much. I hear 'im say, 'I wouldn't 'a'

done it fer de worl', Conant--not fer de worl'.' Den de doctor, he

come up, an' Marse Tumlin, he pester de man twel he hear 'im say,

'Don't worry, Major; dis boy'll live ter be a older man dan you ever

will.' Den Marse Tumlin got his pistol an' hunt up an' down fer dat ar

Tom Ferryman, but he done gone. I seed 'im when he got on his hoss.

"I say to Marse Tumlin, 'Ain't you des ez well ter fetch Marse Paul

Conant home whar we all kin take keer uv 'im?' He low, 'Dat's a

_fack_. Go home an' tell yo' Miss Vallie fer ter have de big room

fixed up time we git dar wid 'im.' I say, 'Humph! I'll fix it myse'f;

I know'd I ain't gwine ter let Miss Vallie do it.'

"Well, suh, 'tain't no use fer ter tell yer de rest. Dar's dat ar baby

in dar, an' what mo' sign does you want ter show you dat it all turned

out des like one er dem ol'-time tales?"

A KENTUCKY CINDERELLA

By F. HOPKINSON SMITH

Copyright 1899 by F. Hopkinson Smith.

I was bending over my easel, hard at work upon a full-length portrait

of a young girl in a costume of fifty years ago, when the door of my

studio opened softly and Aunt Chloe came in.

"Good-mawnin', suh! I didn' think you'd come to-day, bein' a Sunday,"

she said, with a slight bend of her knees. "I'll jes' sweep up a lil

mite; doan' ye move, I won't 'sturb ye."

Aunt Chloe had first opened my door a year before with a note from

Marny, a brother brush, which began with "Here is an old Southern mammy

who has seen better days; paint her if you can," and ended with, "Any

way, give her a job."

The bearer of the note was indeed the ideal mammy, even to the bandanna

handkerchief bound about her head, and the capacious waist and ample

bosom--the lullaby resting-place for many a child, white and black. I

had never seen a real one in the flesh before. I had heard about them

in my earlier days. Daddy Billy, my father's body servant and my

father's slave, who lived to be ninety-four, had told me of his own

Aunt Mirey, who had died in the old days, but too far back for me to

remember. And I had listened, when a boy, to the traditions connected

with the plantations of my ancestors,--of the Keziahs and Mammy

Crouches and Mammy Janes,--but I had never looked into the eyes of one

of the old school until I saw Aunt Chloe, nor had I ever fully realized

how quaintly courteous and gentle one of them could be until, with an

old-time manner, born of a training seldom found outside of the old

Southern homes, she bent forward, spread her apron with both hands, and

with a little backward dip had said as she left me that first day:

"Thank ye, suh! I'll come eve'y Sunday mawnin'. I'll do my best to

please ye, an' I specs I kin."

I do not often work on Sunday, but my picture had been too long delayed

waiting for a faded wedding dress worn once by the original when she

was a bride, and which had only been found when two of her descendants

had ransacked their respective garrets.

"Mus' be mighty driv, suh," she said, "a workin' on de Sabbath day.

Golly, but dat's a purty lady!" and she put down her pail. "I see it

las' Sunday when I come in, but she didn't had dem ruffles 'round her

neck den dat you done gib her. 'Clar' to goodness, dat chile look like

she was jes' a-gwine to speak."

Aunt Chloe was leaning on her broom, her eyes scrutinizing the portrait.

"Well, if dat doan' beat de lan'. I ain't never seen none o' dem

frocks since de ole times. An' dem lil low shoes wid de ribbons

crossed on de ankles! She's de livin' pussonecation--she is so, for a

fac'. Uhm! Uh!" (It is difficult to convey this peculiar sound of

complete approval in so many letters.)

"Did you ever know anybody like her?" I asked.

The old woman straightened her back, and for a moment her eyes looked

into mine. I had often tried to draw from her something of her earlier

life, but she had always evaded my questions. Marny had told me that

his attempts had at first been equally disappointing.

"Body as ole's me, suh, seen a plenty o' people." Then her eyes sought

the canvas again.

After a moment's pause she said, as if to herself: "You's de real

quality, chile, dat you is; eve'y spec an' spinch o' ye."

I tried again.

"Does it look like anybody you ever saw, Aunt Chloe?"

"It do an' it don't," she answered critically. "De feet is like hern,

but de eyes ain't."

"Who?"

"Oh, Miss Nannie." And she leaned again on her broom and looked down

on the floor.

I heaped up a little pile of pigments on one corner of my palette and

flattened them for a high light on a fold in the satin gown.

"Who was Miss Nannie?" I asked carelessly. I was afraid the thread

would break if I pulled too hard.

"One o' my chillen, honey." A peculiar softness came into her voice.

"Tell me about her. It will help me get her eyes right, so you can

remember her better. They don't look human enough to me anyhow" (this

last to myself). "Where did she live?"

"Where dey all live---down in de big house. She warn't Marse Henry's

real chile, but she come o' de blood. She didn't hab dem kind o' shoes

on her footses when I fust see her, but she wore 'em when she lef' me.

Dat she did." Her voice rose suddenly and her eyes brightened. "And

dem ain't nothin' to de way dey shined. I ain't never seen no satin

slippers shine like dem slippers; dey was jes' ablaze!"

I worked on in silence. Marny had cautioned me not to be too curious.

Some day she might open her heart and tell me wonderful stories of her

earlier life, but I must not appear too anxious. She had become rather

suspicious of strangers since she had moved North and lost track of her

own people, Marny had said.

Aunt Chloe picked up her pail and began moving some easels into a far

corner of my studio and piling the chairs in a heap. This done, she

stopped again and stood behind me, looking intently at the canvas over

my shoulder.

"My! My! ain't dat de ve'y image of dat frock? I kin see it now jes'

as Miss Nannie come down de stairs. But you got to put dat gold chain

on it 'fore it gits to be de ve'y 'spress image. I had it roun' my own

neck once; I knew jes' how it looked."

I laid down my palette, and picking up a piece of chalk asked her to

describe it so that I could make an outline.

"It was long an' heavy, an' it woun' roun' de neck twice an' hung down

to de wais'. An' dat watch on de end of it! Well, I ain't seen none

like dat one sence. I 'clar' to ye it was jes' 's teeny as one o' dem

lil biscuits I used to make for 'er when she come in de kitchen--an'

she was dere most of de time. Dey didn't care nuffin for her much.

Let 'er go roun' barefoot half de time, an' her hair a-flyin'. Only

one good frock to her name, an' dat warn't nuffin but calico. I used

to wash dat many a time for her long 'fore she was outen her bed.

Allus makes my blood bile to dis day whenever I think of de way dey

treated dat chile. But it didn't make no diff'ence what she had

on--shoes or no shoes--her footses was dat lil. An' purty! Wid her

big eyes an' her cheeks jes' 's fresh as dem rosewater roses dat I used

to snip off for ole Sam to put on de table. Oh! I tell ye, if ye could

picter her like dat dey wouldn't be nobody clear from here to glory

could come nigh her."

Aunt Chloe's eyes were kindling with every word. I remembered Marny's

warning and kept stil. I had abandoned the sketch of the chain as an

unnecessary incentive, and had begun again with my palette knife,

pottering away, nodding appreciatingly, and now and then putting a

question to clear up some tangled situation as to dates and localities

which her rambling talk had left unsettled.

"Yes, suh, down in the blue grass country, near Lexin'ton, Kentucky,

whar my ole master, Marse Henry Gordon, lived," she answered to my

inquiry as to where this all happened. "I used to go eve'y year to see

him after de war was over, an' kep' it up till he died. Dere warn't

nobody like him den, an' dere ain't none now. He warn't never spiteful

to chillen, white or black. Eve'ybody knowed dat. I was a pickaninny

myse'f, an' I belonged to him. An' he ain't never laid a lick on me,

an' he wouldn't let nobody else do 't nuther, 'cept my mammy. I

'members one time when Aunt Dinah made cake dat ole Sam--he war a heap

younger den--couldn't put it on de table 'ca'se dere was a piece broke

out'n it. Sam he riz, an' Dinah she riz, an' after dey'd called each

other all de names dey could lay dere tongues to, Miss Ann, my own fust

mist'ess, come in an' she say dem chillen tuk dat cake, an' 't ain't

nary one o' ye dat's 'sponsible. 'What's dis,' says Marse

Henry--'chillen stealin' cake? Send 'em here to me!' When we all come

in--dere was six or eight of us--he says, 'Eve'y one o' ye look me in

de eye; now which one tuk it?' I kep' lookin' away,--fust on de flo'

an' den out de windy. 'Look at me,' he says agin. 'You ain't lookin',

Clorindy.' Den I cotched him watchin' me. 'Now you all go out,' he

says, 'and de one dat's guilty kin come back agin.' Den we all went

out in de yard. 'You tell him,' says one. 'No, you tell him;' an'

dat's de way it went on. I knowed I was de wustest, for I opened de

door o' de sideboard an' gin it to de others. Den I thought, if I

don't tell him mebbe he'll lick de whole passel on us, an' dat ain't

right; but if I go tell him an' beg his 'umble pardon he might lemme

go. So I crep' 'round where he was a-settin' wid his book on his

knee,"--Aunt Chloe was now moving stealthily behind me, her eyes fixed

on her imaginary master, head down, one finger in her mouth,--"an' I

say, 'Marse Henry!' An' he look up an' say, 'Who's dat?' An' I say,

'Dat's Clorindy.' An' he say, 'What you want?' 'Marse Henry, I come

to tell ye I was hungry, an' I see de door open an' I shove it back an'

tuk de piece o' cake, an' I thought maybe if I done tole ye you'd

forgib me.'

"'Den you is de ringleader,' he says, 'an' you tempted de other

chillen?' 'Yes,' I says, 'I 'spec' so.' 'Well,' he says, lookin' down

on de carpet, 'now dat you has perfessed an' beg pardon, you is good

an' ready to pay 'tention to what I'm gwine to say.' De other chillen

had sneaked up an' was listenin'; dey 'spected to see me git it, though

dere ain't nary one of 'em ever knowed him to strike 'em a lick. Den

he says: 'Dis here is a lil thing,--dis stealin' a cake; an' it's a big

thing at de same time. Miss Ann has been right smart put out 'bout it,

an' I'm gwine to see dat it don't happen agin. If you see a pin on de

fl'or you wouldn't steal it,--you'd pick it up if you wanted it, an' it

wouldn't be nuffin, 'cause somebody th'owed it away an' it was free to

eve'body; but if you see a piece o' money on de fl'or, you knowed

nobody didn't th'ow dat away, an' if you pick it up an' don't tell,

dat's somethin' else--dat's stealin', 'cause you tuk somethin' dat

somebody else has paid somethin' for an' dat belongs to him. Now dis

cake ain't o' much 'count, but it warn't yourn, an' you oughtn't to ha'

tuk it. If you'd asked yo'r mist'ess for it she'd gin you a piece.

There ain't nuffin here you chillen doan' git when ye ask for it.' I

didn't say nuffin more. I jes' waited for him to do anythin' he wanted

to me. Den he looks at de carpet for a long time an' he says:--

"'I reckon you won't take no mo' cake 'thout askin' for it, Clorindy,

an' you chillen kin go out an' play agin.'"

The tears were now standing in her eyes.

"Dat's what my ole master was, suh; I ain't never forgot it. If he had

beat me to death he couldn't 'a' done no mo' for me. He jes' splained

to me an' I ain't never forgot since."

"Did your own mother find it out?" I asked.

The tears were gone now; her face was radiant again at my question.

"Dat she did, suh. One o' de chillen done tole on me. Mammy jes' made

one grab as I run pas' de kitchen door, an' reached for a barrel stave,

an' she fairly sot--me--afire!"

Aunt Chloe was now holding her sides with laughter, fresh tears

streaming down her cheeks.

"But Marse Henry never knowed it. Lawd, suh, dere ain't nobody round

here like him, nor never was. I kin 'member him now same as it was

yesterday, wid his white hair, an' he a-settin' in his big chair. It

was de las' time I ever see him. De big house was gone, an' de colored

people was gone, an' he was dat po' he didn't know where de nex'

moufful was a-comin' from. I come out behind him so,"--Aunt Chloe made

me her old master and my stool his rocking-chair,--"an' I pat him on

the shoulder dis way, an' he say, 'Chloe, is dat you? How is it yo'

looks so comfble like?' An' I say, 'It's you, Marse Henry; you done it

all; yo' teachin' made me what I is, an' if you study about it you'll

know it's so. An' de others ain't no wus'. Of all de colored people

you owned, dere ain't nary one been hung, or been in de penitentiary,

nor ain't knowed as liars. Dat's de way you fotch us up.'

"An' I love him yet, an' if he was a-livin' to-day I'd work for him an'

take care of him if I went hungry myse'f. De only fool thing Marster

Henry ever done was a-marryin' dat widow woman for his second wife.

Miss Nannie, dat looks a lil bit like dat chile you got dere before

ye"--and she pointed to the canvas--"wouldn't a been sot on an' 'bused

like she was but for her. Dat woman warn't nuffin but a harf-strainer

noway, if I do say it. Eve'body knowed dat. How Marse Henry Gordon

come to marry her nobody don't know till dis day. She warn't none o'

our people. Dey do say dat he met her up to Frankfort when he was in

de Legislator, but I don't know if dat's so. But she warn't nuffin,

nohow."

"Was Miss Nannie her child?" I asked, stepping back from my easel to

get the better effect of my canvas.

"No suh, dat she warn't!" with emphasis. "She was Marse Henry's own

sister's chile, she was. Her people--Miss Nannie's--lived up in

Indiany, an' dey was jes' 's po' as watermelon rinds, and when her

mother died Marse Henry sent for her to come live wid him, 'cause he

said Miss Rachel--dat was dat woman's own chile by her fust

husband--was lonesome. Dey was bofe about de one age,--fo'teen or

fifteen years old,--but Lawd-a-massy! Miss Rachel warn't lonesome

'cept for what he couldn't git, an' she most broke her heart 'bout dat,

much 's she could break it 'bout anything.

"I remember de ve'y day Miss Nannie come. I see her comin' down de

road totin' a big ban'box, an' a carpet bag mos 's big 's herse'f. Den

she turned in de gate. ''Fo' God,' I says to ole Sam, who was settin'

de table for dinner, 'who's dis yere comin' in?' Den I see her stop

an' set de bundles down an' catch her bref, and den she come on agin.

"'Dat's Marse Henry's niece,' he says. 'I heared de mistress say she

was a-comin' one day dis week by de coach.'

"I see right away dat dat woman was up to one of her tricks; she didn't

'tend to let dat chile come no other way 'cept like a servant; she was

dat dirt mean.

"Oh, you needn't look, suh! I ain't meanin' no onrespect, but I knowed

dat woman when Marse Henry fust married her, an' she ain't never fooled

me once. Fust time she come into de house she walked plumb in de

kitchen, where me an' old Sam an' ole Dinah was a-eaten our dinner, we

setten at de table like we useter did, and she flung her head up in de

air and she says: 'After dis when I come in I want you niggers to git

up on yo' feet.' Think o' dat, will ye? Marse Henry never called nary

one of us nigger since we was pickaninnies. I knowed den she warn't

'customed to nuthin'. But I tell ye she never put on dem kind o' airs

when Marse Henry was about. No, suh. She was always mighty sugar-like

to him when he was home, but dere ain't no conniption she warn't up to

when he couldn't hear of it. She had purty nigh riz de roof when he

done tell her dat Miss Nannie was a-comin' to live wid 'em, but she

couldn't stand agin him, for warn't her only daughter, Miss Rachel,

livin' on him, an' not only Miss Rachel, but lots mo' of her people

where she come from?

"Well, suh, as soon as ole Sam said what chile it was dat was a-comin'

down de road I dropped my dishcloth an' I run out to meet 'er.

"'Is you Miss Nannie?' I says. 'Gimme dat bag,' I says, 'an' dat box.'

"'Yes,' she says, 'dat's me, an' ain't you Aunt Chloe what I heared so

much about?'

"Honey, you ain't never gwine to git de kind o' look on dat picter

you's workin' on dere, suh, as sweet as dat chile's face when she said

dat to me. I loved her from dat fust minute I see her, an' I loved her

ever since, jes' as I loved her mother befo' her.

"When she got to de house, me a-totin' de things on behind, de mist'ess

come out on de po'ch.

"'Oh, dat's you, is it, Nannie?' she says. 'Well, Chloe'll tell ye

where to go,' an' she went straight in de house agin. Never kissed

her, nor touched her, nor nuffin!

"Ole Sam was bilin'. He heard her say it, an' if he was alive he'd

tell ye same as me.

"'Where's she gwine to sleep?' I says, callin' after her; 'upstairs

long wid Miss Rachel?' I was gittin' hot myse'f, though I didn't say

nuffin.

"'No,' she says, flingin' up her head like a goat; 'my daughter needs

all de room she's got. You kin take her downstairs an' fix up a place

for her longside o' you an' Dinah.' She was de old cook.

"'Come long,' I says, 'Miss Nannie,' an' I dropped a curtsey same's if

she was a princess. An' so she was, an' Marse Henry's own eyes in her

head, an' 'nough like him to be his own chile. 'I'll hab ev'ything

ready for ye,' I says. 'You wait here an' take de air,' an' I got a

chair an' sot her down on de po'ch, an' ole Sam brung her some cake,

an' I went to git de room ready--de room offn de kitchen pantry, where

dey puts de overseer's chillen when dey come to see him.

"Purty soon Miss Rachel come down an' went up an' kissed her--dat is,

Sam said so, though I ain't never seen her kiss her dat time nor no

other time. Miss Rachel an' de mist'ess was bofe split out o' de same

piece o' kindlin', an' what one was agin t' other was agin--a blind man

could see dat Miss Rachel never liked Miss Nannie from de fust, she was

dat cross-grained and pernicketty. No matter what Miss Nannie done to

please her it warn't good 'nough for her. Why, do you know, when de

other chillen come over from de nex' plantation Miss Rachel wouldn't

send for Miss Nannie to come in de parlor. No, suh, dat she wouldn't!

An' dey'd run off an' leave her, too, when dey was gwine picknickin',

an' treat dat chile owdacious, sayin' she was po' white trash, an'

charity chile, an' things like dat, till I would go an' tell Marse

Henry 'bout it. Den dere would be a 'ruction, an' Marse Henry'd blaze

out, an' jes 's soon's he was off agin to Frankfort--an' he was dere

mos' of de time, for he was one o' dese yere ole-timers dat dey

couldn't git long widout at de Legislator--dey'd treat her wus'n ever.

Soon's Dinah an' me see dat, we kep' Miss Nannie long wid us much as we

could. She'd eat wid 'em when dere warn't no company 'round, but dat

was 'bout all."

"Did they send her to school?" I asked, fearing she would again lose

the thread. My picture had a new meaning for me now that it looked

like her heroine.

"No, suh, dat dey didn't, 'cept to de schoolhouse at de cross-roads

whar everybody's chillen went. But dey sent Miss Rachel to a real

highty-tighty school, dat dey did, down to Louisville. Two winters she

was dere, an' eve'y time when she come home for holiday times she had

mo' airs dan when she went away. Marse Henry wanted bofe chillen to

go, but dat woman outdid him, an' she faced him up an' down dat dere

warn't money 'nough for two, an' dat her daughter was de fittenest, an'

all dat, an' he give in. I didn't hear it, but ole Sam did, an' his

han' shook so he mos' spilt de soup. But law, honey, dat didn't make

no diff'ence to Miss Nannie. She'd go off by herse'f wid her books an'

sit all day under de trees, an' sing to herse'f jes' like a bird, an'

dey'd sing to her, an' all dat time her face was a-beamin' an' her hair

shinin' like gold, an' she a-growin' taller, an' her eyes gittin'

bigger an' bigger, an' brighter, an' her little footses white an'

cunnin' as a rabbit's.

"De only place whar she did go outside de big house was over to Mis'

Morgan's, who lived on de nex' plantation. Miss Morgan didn't hab no

chillen of her own, an' she'd send for Miss Nannie to come an' keep her

company, she was dat dead lonesome, an' dey was glad 'nough to let dat

chile go so dey could git her out o' de house. Ole Sam allers said

dat, for he heared 'em talk at table an' knowed what was gwine on.

"Purty soon long come de time when Miss Rachel done finish her

eddication, an' she come back to de big house an' sot herse'f up to

'ceive company. She warn't bad lookin' in dem days, I mus' say, an' if

dat woman's sperit hadn't 'a' been in her she might 'a' pulled through.

But dere warn't no fetching up could stand agin dat blood. Miss Rachel

'd git dat ornery dat you could n't do nuffin wid her, jes' like her

maw. De fust real out-an'-out beau she had was Dr. Tom Boling. He

lived 'bout fo'teen miles out o' Lexin'ton on de big plantation, an'

was de richest young man in our parts. His paw had died 'bout two

years befo' an' lef' him mo' money dan he could th'ow away, an' he'd

jes' come back from Philadelphy, whar he'd been a-learnin' to be a

doctor. He met Miss Rachel at a party in Louisville, an' de fust

Sunday she come home he driv over to see her. If ye could 'a' seen de

mist'ess when she see him comin' in de gate! All in his ridin' boots

an' his yaller breeches an' bottle-green coat, an' his servant a-ridin'

behind to hold de horses.

"Ole Sam an' me was a-watchin' de mist'ess peekin' th'ough de blind at

him, her eyes a-blazin', an' Sam laughed so he had to stuff a napkin in

his mouf to keep 'er from hearin' him. Well, suh, dat went on all de

summer. Eve'y time he come de mist'ess 'd be dat sweet mos' make a

body sick to see her, an' when he'd stay away she was dat pesky dere

warn't no livin' wid her. Of co'se dere was plenty mo' gemmen co'rting

Miss Rachel, too, but none o' dem didn't count wid de mist'ess 'cept de

doctor, 'cause he was rich, dat's all dere was to 't, 'cause he was

rich. I tell ye ole Sam had to tell many a lie to the other gemmen,

sayin' Miss Rachel was sick or somethin' else when she was a-waitin'

for de doctor to come, and was feared he might meet some of 'em an' git

skeered away.

"Miss Nannie, she'd watch him, too, from behind de kitchen door, or

scrunched down lookin' over de pantry winder sill, an' den she'd tell

Dinah an' me what he did, an' how he got off his horse an' han' de

reins to de boy, an' slap his boots wid his ridin' whip, like he was

a-dustin' off a fly. An' she'd act it all out for me an' Dinah, an'

slap her own frock, an' den she'd laugh fit to kill herse'f an' dance

all 'round de kitchen. Would yo' believe it? No! dere ain't nobody 'd

believe it. Dey never asked her to come in once while he was in de

parlor, an' dey never once tole him dat Miss Nannie was a-livin' on de

top side o' de yearth!

"Co'se people 'gin to talk, an' ev'ybody said dat Dr. Boling was

gittin' nighest de coon, an' dat fust thing dey'd know dere would be a

weddin' in de Gordon fambly. An' den agin dere was plenty mo' people

said he was only passin' de time wid Miss Rachel, an' dat he come to

see Marse Henry to talk pol'tics.

"Well, one day, suh, I was a-standin' in de door an' I see him come in

a-foot, widout his horse an' servant, an' step up on de po'ch quick an'

rap at de do', like he say to himse'f, 'Lemme in; I'm in a hurry; I got

somethin' on my mind.' Ole Sam was jes' a-gwine to open de do' for him

when Miss Nannie come a-runnin' in de kitchen from de yard, her cheeks

like de roses, her hair a-flyin', an' her big hat hangin' to a string

down her back. I gin Sam one look an' he stopped, an' I says to Miss

Nannie, 'Run, honey,' I says, 'an' open de do' for ole Sam; I spec',' I

says, 'it's one o' dem peddlers.'

"If you could 'a' seen dat chile's face when she come back!"

Aunt Chloe's hands were now waving above her head, her mouth wide open

in her merriment, every tooth shining.

"She was white one minute an' red as a beet the nex'. 'Oh, Aunt Chloe,

what did you let me go for?' she says. 'Oh! I wouldn't 'a' let him

see me like dis for anythin' in de wo'ld. Oh, I'm dat put out.'

"'What did he say to ye, honey?' I says.

"'He didn't say nuffin; he jes' look at me an' say he beg my pardon,

an' was Miss Rachel in, an' den I said I'd run an' tell her, an' when I

come downstairs agin he was a-standin' in de hall wid his eyes up de

staircase, an' he never stopped lookin' at me till I come down.'

"'Well, dat won't do you no harm, chile,' I says; 'a cat kin look at a

king.'

"Ole Sam was a-watchin' her, too, an' when she'd gone in her leetle

room an' shet de do' Sam says, 'I'll lay if Marse Tom Boling had

anythin' on his mind when he come here to-day it's mighty onsettled by

dis time.'

"Nex' time Dr. Tom Boling come he say to de mist'ess, 'Who's dat young

lady,' he says, 'dat opened de door for me las' time I was here? I

hoped to see her agin. Is she in?'

"Den dey bofe cooked up some lie' bout her bein' over to Mis' Morgan's

or somethin', an' as soon 's he was gone dey come down an' riz Sam for

not 'tendin' de door an' lettin' dat ragged fly-away gal open it. Den

dey went for Miss Nannie till dey made her cry, an' she come to me, an'

I took her in my lap an' comfo'ted her like I allers did.

"De nex' time he come he says, 'I hear dat yo'r niece, Miss Nannie

Barnes, is livin' wid you, an' dat she is ve'y 'sclusive. I hope dat

you'll 'suade her to come in de parlor,' he says. Dem was his ve'y

words. Sam was a-standin' close to him as I am to you an' he heared

him.

"'She ain't yet in s'ciety,' de mist'ess says, 'an' she's dat wild dat

we can't p'esent her.'

"'Oh! is dat so?' he says. 'Is she in now?'

"'No,' she says, 'she's over to Mis' Morgan's.'

"Dat was a fac' dis time; she'd gone dat very mawnin'. Den Miss Rachel

come down, an' co'se Sam didn't hear no mo' 'cause he had to go out.

Purty soon out de doctor come. Dese visits, min' ye, was gittin'

shorter an' shorter, though he do come as often, an' over he goes to

Mis' Morgan's hisse'f.

"Now I doan' know what he said to Miss Nannie, or what passed 'twixt

'em, 'cause she didn't tell me. Only dat she said he had come to see

Mis' Morgan 'bout some land matters, an' dat Mis' Morgan interjuced

'em, but nuffin mo'. Lord bless dat chile! An', suh, dat was de fust

time she ever kep' anythin' from her ole mammy. Dat made me mo' glad

'n ever. I knowed den dey was bofe hit.

"But my lah', de fur begin to fly when de mist'ess an' Miss Rachel

heared 'bout dat visit!

"'What you mean by makin' eyes at Dr. Boling? Don't you know he's good

as 'gaged to my daughter?' de mist'ess said. Dat was a lie, for he

never said a word to Miss Rachel; ole Sam could tole you dat. 'Git out

o' my house, you good-for-nothin' pauper, an' take yo' rags wid ye.'

"I see right away de fat was in de fire. Marse Henry warn't 'spected

home till de nex' Sunday, an' so I tuk her over to Mis' Morgan, an' den

I ups an' tells her everything dat woman had done to dat chile since de

day she come. An' when I'd done she tuk Miss Nannie by de han' an' she

says:--

"'You won't never want a home, chile, so long as I live. Go back,

Chloe, an' git her clo'es.' But I didn't git 'em. I knowed Marse

Henry 'd raise de roof when he come, an' he did, bless yo' heart. Went

over hisse'f an' got her, an' brought her home, an' dat night when Dr.

Boling come he made her sit down in de parlor, an' 'fo' he went home

dat night de Doctor he say to Marse Henry, 'I want yo' permission,

Mister Gordon, to pay my addresses to Miss Nannie, yo' niece.' Sam was

a-standing close as he could git to de door, an' he heard ev'y word.

Now he ain't never said dat, mind ye, to Marse Henry 'bout Miss Rachel!

An' dat's why I know dat he warn't hit unto death wid her.

"Well, do you know, suh, dat dat woman was dat owdacious she wouldn't

let 'em see each other after dat 'cept on de front po'ch. Wouldn't let

'em come in de house; make 'em do all dere co'rtin' on de steps an' out

at de paster gate. De doctor would rare an' pitch an' git white in de

face at de scandlous way dat Miss Barnes was bein' treated, until Miss

Nannie put bofe her leetle han's on his'n, soothin' like, an' den he'd

grab 'em an' kiss 'em like he'd eat 'em up. Sam cotched him at it, an'

done tole me; an' den dey'd sa'nter off down de po'ch, sayin' it was

too hot or too cool, or dat dey was lookin' for birds' nests in de

po'ch vines, till dey'd git to de far end, where de mist'ess nor Sam

nor nobody else couldn't hear what dey was a-sayin' an' a-whisperin',

an' dere dey'd sit fer hours.

"But I tell ye de doctor had a hard time a-gittin' her even when Marse

Henry gin his consent. An' he never would 'a' got her if Miss Rachel,

jes' for spite, I spec', hadn't 'a' took up wid Colonel Todhunter's son

dat was a-co'rtin' on her too, an' run off an' married him. Den Miss

Nannie knowed she was free to follow her own heart.

"I tell you it'd 'a' made ye cry yo' eyes out, suh, to see dat chile

try an' fix herse'f up to meet him de days an' nights she knowed he was

comin', an' she wid jes' one white frock to her name. An' we all felt

jes' as bad as her. Dinah would wash it an' I'd smooth her hair, an'

ole Sam 'd git her a fresh rose to put in her neck.

"Purty soon de weddin' day was 'pinted, an' me an' Dinah an' ole Sam

'gin to wonder how dat chile was a-gwine to git clo'es to be married

in. Sam heared ole marster ask dat same question at de table, an' he

see him gib de mist'ess de money to buy 'em for her, an' de mist'ess

said dat she reckoned 'Miss Nannie's people would want de privlege o'

dressin' her now dat she was a-gwine to marry dat wo'thless young

doctor, Tom Boling, dat nobody wouldn't hab in de house, but dat if dey

didn't she'd gin her some of Miss Rachel's clo'es, an' if dem warn't

'nough den she'd spen' de money to de best advantage.' Dem was her

ve'y words. Sam heared her say 'em. I knowed dat meant dat de chile

would go naked, for she wouldn't a-worn none o' Miss Rachel's rubbish,

an' not a cent would she git o' de money. So I got dat ole white frock

out, an' Dinah found a white ribbon in a ole trunk in de garret, an'

washed an' ironed it to tie 'round her waist, an' Miss Nannie come an'

look at it, an' when she see it de tears riz up in her eyes.

"'Doan' you cry, chile,' I says. 'He ain't lovin' ye for yo' clo'es,

an' never did. Fust time he see ye yo' was purty nigh barefoot. It's

you he wants, not yo' frocks, honey;' an' den de sun come out in her

face an' her eyes dried up, an' she 'gin to smile an' sing like a robin

after de rain.

"Purty soon long come Chris'mas time, an' me an' ole Sam an' Dinah was

a-watchin' out to see what Marse Tom Boling was gwine to gin his bride,

fur she was purty nigh dat, as dey was to be married de week after

Chris'mas. Well, suh, de mawnin' 'fore Chris'mas come, an' den de

arternoon come, an' den de night come, an' mos' ev'y hour somebody sent

somethin' for Miss Rachel, an' yet not one scrap of nuffin big as a

chink-a-pin come for Miss Nannie. Dinah an' me was dat onresless dat

we couldn't sleep. Miss Nannie didn't say nuffin when she went to bed,

but I see a little shadder creep over her face an' I knowed right away

what hurted her.

"Well, de nex' mawnin'--Chris'mas mawnin' dat was--ole Sam come

a-bustin' in de kitchen do', a-hollerin' loud as he could holler"--Aunt

Chloe was now rocking herself back and forth, clapping her hands as she

talked--"dat dere was a trunk on de front po'ch for Miss Nannie dat was

dat heavy it tuk fo' niggers to lif it. I run, an' Dinah run, an' when

we got to de trunk mos' all de niggers was thick 'round it as flies,

an' Miss Nannie was standin' over it readin' a card wid her name on it

an' a 'scription sayin' dat it was 'a Chris'mas gif, wid de compliments

of a friend.' But who dat friend was, whether it was Marse Henry, who

sent it dat way so dat woman wouldn't tear his hair out; or whether

Mis' Morgan sent it, dat hadn't mo'n 'nough money to live on; or

whether some of her own kin in Indiany, dat was dirt po', stole de

money an' sent it; or whether de young Dr. Tom Doling, who had mo'

money dan all de banks in Lexin'ton, done did it, don't nobody know

till dis day, 'cept me an' ole Sam, an' we ain't tellin'.

"But, my soul alive, de insides of dat trunk took de bref clean out o'

de mist'ess an' Miss Rachel. Sam opened it, an' I tuk out de things.

Honey! dere was a weddin' dress all white satin dat would stand

alone,--jes' de ve'y mate of de one you got in dat picter 'fore

ye,--an' a change'ble silk, dat heavy! an' a plaid one, an' eve'ything

a young lady could git on her back from her skin out, an' a

thousand-dollar watch an' chain. I wore dat watch myse'f; Miss Nannie

was standin' by me, a-clappin' her han's an' laughin', an' when dat

watch an' chain came out she jes' th'owed de chain over my neck an'

stuck de leetle watch in my bosom, an' says, 'Dere, you dear ole mammy,

go look at you'se'f in de glass an' see how fine you is.'

"De nex' week come de weddin'. I'll never forgit dat weddin' to my

dyin' day. Marse Tom Boling driv in wid a coach an' four an' two

outriders, an' de horses wore white ribbons on dere ears; an' de

coachman had flowers in his coat mos' big as his head, an' dey whirled

up in front of de po'ch, an' out he stepped in his blue coat an' brass

buttons an' a yaller wais'coat,--yaller as a gourd,--an' his bell-crown

hat in his han'. She was a-waitin' for him wid dat white satin dress

on, an' de chain 'round her neck, an' her lil footses tied up wid silk

ribbons de ve'y match o' dem you got pictered, an' her face shinin'

like a angel. An' all de niggers was a-standin' 'roun' de po'ch, dere

eyes out'n dere heads, an' Marse Henry was dere in his new clo'es

lookin' so grand, an' Sam in his white gloves, an' me in a new head

han'chief.

"Eve'body was happy 'cept one. Dat one was de mist'ess, standin' in de

door. She wouldn't come out to de coach where de horses was a-champin'

de bits an' de froth a-droppin' on de groun', an' she wouldn't speak to

Marse Tom. She kep' back in de do'way.

"Miss Rachel was dat mean she wouldn't come downstairs.

"Miss Nannie gib Marse Tom Boling her han' an' look up in his face like

a queen, an' den she kissed Marse Henry, an' whispered somethin' in his

ear dat nobody didn't hear, only de tears gin to jump out an' roll down

his cheeks, an' den she looked de mist'ess full in de face, an' 'thout

a word dropped her a low curtsey.

"I come de las'. She looked at me for a minute wid her eyes

a-swimmin', an' den she th'owed her arms roun' my neck an' hugged an'

kissed me, an' den I see an arm slip 'roun' her wais' an' lif her in de

coach. Den de horses 'gin a plunge an' dey was off.

"An' arter dat dey had five years--de happiest years dem two ever seen.

I know, 'cause Marse Henry gin me to her, an' I lived wid 'em day in

an' day out till dat baby come, an' den--"

Aunt Chloe stopped and reached out her hand as if to steady herself.

The tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Then she advanced a step, fixed her eyes on the portrait, and in a

voice broken with emotion, said:--

"Honey, chile,--honey, chile,--is you tired a-waitin' for yo' ole

mammy? Keep a-watchin', honey--keep a-watchin'--It won't be long now

'fore I come. Keep a-watchin'."

BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE

By F. MARION CRAWFORD

Copyright 1894 by G. P. Putnam's Sons.

I

I remember my childhood very distinctly. I do not think that the fact

argues a good memory, for I have never been clever at learning words by

heart, in prose or rhyme; so that I believe my remembrance of events

depends much more upon the events themselves than upon my possessing

any special facility for recalling them. Perhaps I am too imaginative,

and the earliest impressions I received were of a kind to stimulate the

imagination abnormally. A long series of little misfortunes, so

connected with each other as to suggest a sort of weird fatality, so

worked upon my melancholy temperament when I was a boy that, before I

was of age, I sincerely believed myself to be under a curse, and not

only myself, but my whole family and every individual who bore my name.

I was born in the old place where my father, and his father, and all

his predecessors had been born, beyond the memory of man. It is a very

old house, and the greater part of it was originally a castle, strongly

fortified, and surrounded by a steep moat supplied with abundant water

from the hills by a hidden aqueduct. Many of the fortifications have

been destroyed, and the moat has been filled up. The water from the

aqueduct supplies great fountains, and runs down into huge oblong

basins in the terraced gardens, one below the other, each surrounded by

a broad pavement of marble between the water and the flower-beds. The

waste surplus finally escapes through an artificial grotto, some thirty

yards long, into a stream, flowing down through the park to the meadows

beyond, and thence to the distant river. The buildings were extended a

little and greatly altered more than two hundred years ago, in the time

of Charles II., but since then little has been done to improve them,

though they have been kept in fairly good repair, according to our

fortunes.

In the gardens there are terraces and huge hedges of box and evergreen,

some of which used to be clipped into shapes of animals, in the Italian

style. I can remember when I was a lad how I used to try to make out

what the trees were cut to represent, and how I used to appeal for

explanations to Judith, my Welsh nurse. She dealt in a strange

mythology of her own, and peopled the gardens with griffins, dragons,

good genii and bad, and filled my mind with them at the same time. My

nursery window afforded a view of the great fountains at the head of

the upper basin, and on moonlight nights the Welshwoman would hold me

up to the glass and bid me look at the mist and spray rising into

mysterious shapes, moving mystically in the white light like living

things.

"It's the Woman of the Water," she used to say; and sometimes she would

threaten that if I did not go to sleep the Woman of the Water would

steal up to the high window and carry me away in her wet arms.

[Illustration: F. Hopkinson Smith]

The place was gloomy. The broad basins of water and the tall evergreen

hedges gave it a funereal look, and the damp-stained marble causeways

by the pools might have been made of tombstones. The gray and

weather-beaten walls and towers without, the dark and massively

furnished rooms within, the deep, mysterious recesses and the heavy

curtains, all affected my spirits. I was silent and sad from my

childhood. There was a great clock tower above, from which the hours

rang dismally during the day, and tolled like a knell in the dead of

night. There was no light nor life in the house, for my mother was a

helpless invalid, and my father had grown melancholy in his long task

of caring for her. He was a thin, dark man, with sad eyes; kind, I

think, but silent and unhappy. Next to my mother, I believe he loved

me better than anything on earth, for he took immense pains and trouble

in teaching me, and what he taught me I have never forgotten. Perhaps

it was his only amusement, and that may be the reason why I had no

nursery governess or teacher of any kind while he lived.

I used to be taken to see my mother every day, and sometimes twice a

day, for an hour at a time. Then I sat upon a little stool near her

feet, and she would ask me what I had been doing, and what I wanted to

do. I dare say she saw already the seeds of a profound melancholy in

my nature, for she looked at me always with a sad smile, and kissed me

with a sigh when I was taken away.

One night, when I was just six years old, I lay awake in the nursery.

The door was not quite shut, and the Welsh nurse was sitting sewing in

the next room. Suddenly I heard her groan, and say in a strange voice,

"One--two--one--two!" I was frightened, and I jumped up and ran to the

door, barefooted as I was.

"What is it, Judith?" I cried, clinging to her skirts. I can remember

the look in her strange dark eyes as she answered:

"One--two leaden coffins, fallen from the ceiling!" she crooned,

working herself in her chair. "One--two--a light coffin and a heavy

coffin, falling to the floor!"

Then she seemed to notice me, and she took me back to bed and sang me

to sleep with a queer old Welsh song.

I do not know how it was, but the impression got hold of me that she

had meant that my father and mother were going to die very soon. They

died in the very room where she had been sitting that night. It was a

great room, my day nursery, full of sun when there was any; and when

the days were dark it was the most cheerful place in the house. My

mother grew rapidly worse, and I was transferred to another part of the

building to make place for her. They thought my nursery was gayer for

her, I suppose; but she could not live. She was beautiful when she was

dead, and I cried bitterly.

"The light one, the light one--the heavy one to come," crooned the

Welshwoman. And she was right. My father took the room after my

mother was gone, and day by day he grew thinner and paler and sadder.

"The heavy one, the heavy one--all of lead," moaned my nurse, one night

in December, standing still, just as she was going to take away the

light after putting me to bed. Then she took me up again and wrapped

me in a little gown, and led me away to my father's room. She knocked,

but no one answered. She opened the door, and we found him in his easy

chair before the fire, very white, quite dead.

So I was alone with the Welshwoman till strange people came, and

relations whom I had never seen; and then I heard them saying that I

must be taken away to some more cheerful place. They were kind people,

and I will not believe that they were kind only because I was to be

very rich when I grew to be a man. The world never seemed to be a very

bad place to me, nor all the people to be miserable sinners, even when

I was most melancholy. I do not remember that any one ever did me any

great injustice, nor that I was ever oppressed or ill-treated in any

way, even by the boys at school. I was sad, I suppose, because my

childhood was so gloomy, and, later, because I was unlucky in

everything I undertook, till I finally believed I was pursued by fate,

and I used to dream that the old Welsh nurse and the Woman of the Water

between them had vowed to pursue me to my end. But my natural

disposition should have been cheerful, as I have often thought.

Among the lads of my age I was never last, or even among the last, in

anything; but I was never first. If I trained for a race, I was sure

to sprain my ankle on the day when I was to run. If I pulled an oar

with others, my oar was sure to break. If I competed for a prize, some

unforeseen accident prevented my winning it at the last moment.

Nothing to which I put my hand succeeded, and I got the reputation of

being unlucky, until my companions felt it was always safe to bet

against me, no matter what the appearances might be. I became

discouraged and listless in everything. I gave up the idea of

competing for any distinction at the University, comforting myself with

the thought that I could not fail in the examination for the ordinary

degree. The day before the examination began I fell ill; and when at

last I recovered, after a narrow escape from death, I turned my back

upon Oxford, and went down alone to visit the old place where I had

been born, feeble in health and profoundly disgusted and discouraged.

I was twenty-one years of age, master of myself and of my fortune; but

so deeply had the long chain of small unlucky circumstances affected me

that I thought seriously of shutting myself up from the world to live

the life of a hermit and to die as soon as possible. Death seemed the

only cheerful possibility in my existence, and my thoughts soon dwelt

upon it altogether.

I had never shown any wish to return to my own home since I had been

taken away as a little boy, and no one had ever pressed me to do so.

The place had been kept in order after a fashion, and did not seem to

have suffered during the fifteen years or more of my absence. Nothing

earthly could affect those old gray walls that had fought the elements

for so many centuries. The garden was more wild than I remembered it;

the marble causeways about the pools looked more yellow and damp than

of old, and the whole place at first looked smaller. It was not until

I had wandered about the house and grounds for many hours that I

realized the huge size of the home where, I was to live in solitude.

Then I began to delight in it, and my resolution to live alone grew

stronger.

The people had turned out to welcome me, of course, and I tried to

recognize the changed faces of the old gardener and the old

housekeeper, and to call them by name. My old nurse I knew at once.

She had grown very gray since she heard the coffins fall in the nursery

fifteen years before, but her strange eyes were the same, and the look

in them woke all my old memories. She went over the house with me.

"And how is the Woman of the Water?" I asked, trying to laugh a little.

"Does she still play in the moonlight?"

"She is hungry," answered the Welshwoman, in a low voice.

"Hungry? Then we will feed her." I laughed. But old Judith turned

very pale, and looked at me strangely.

"Feed her? Ay--you will feed her well," she muttered, glancing behind

her at the ancient housekeeper, who tottered after us with feeble steps

through the halls and passages.

I did not think much of her words. She had always talked oddly, as

Welshwomen will, and though I was very melancholy I am sure I was not

superstitious, and I was certainly not timid. Only, as in a far-off

dream, I seemed to see her standing with the light in her hand and

muttering, "The heavy one--all of lead," and then leading a little boy

through the long corridors to see his father lying dead in a great easy

chair before a smouldering fire. So we went over the house, and I

chose the rooms where I would live; and the servants I had brought with

me ordered and arranged everything, and I had no more trouble. I did

not care what they did provided I was left in peace and was not

expected to give directions; for I was more listless than ever, owing

to the effects of my illness at college.

I dined in solitary state, and the melancholy grandeur of the vast old

dining-room pleased me. Then I went to the room I had selected for my

study, and sat down in a deep chair, under a bright light, to think, or

to let my thoughts meander through labyrinths of their own choosing,

utterly indifferent to the course they might take.

The tall windows of the room opened to the level of the ground upon the

terrace at the head of the garden. It was in the end of July, and

everything was open, for the weather was warm. As I sat alone I heard

the unceasing splash of the great fountains, and I fell to thinking of

the Woman of the Water. I rose and went out into the still night, and

sat down upon a seat on the terrace, between two gigantic Italian

flower-pots. The air was deliciously soft and sweet with the smell of

the flowers, and the garden was more congenial to me than the house.

Sad people always like running water and the sound of it at night,

though I cannot tell why. I sat and listened in the gloom, for it was

dark below, and the pale moon had not yet climbed over the hills in

front of me, though all the air above was light with her rising beams.

Slowly the white halo in the eastern sky ascended in an arch above the

wooded crests, making the outlines of the mountains more intensely

black by contrast, as though the head of some great white saint were

rising from behind a screen in a vast cathedral, throwing misty glories

from below. I longed to see the moon herself, and I tried to reckon

the seconds before she must appear. Then she sprang up quickly, and in

a moment more hung round and perfect in the sky. I gazed at her, and

then at the floating spray of the tall fountains, and down at the

pools, where the waterlilies were rocking softly in their sleep on the

velvet surface of the moonlit water. Just then a great swan floated

out silently into the midst of the basin, and wreathed his long neck,

catching the water in his broad bill, and scattering showers of

diamonds around him.

Suddenly, as I gazed, something came between me and the light. I

looked up instantly. Between me and the round disk of the moon rose a

luminous face of a woman, with great strange eyes, and a woman's mouth,

full and soft, but not smiling, hooded in black, staring at me as I sat

still upon my bench. She was close to me--so close that I could have

touched her with my hand. But I was transfixed and helpless. She

stood still for a moment, but her expression did not change. Then she

passed swiftly away, and my hair stood up on my head, while the cold

breeze from her white dress was wafted to my temples as she moved. The

moonlight, shining through the tossing spray of the fountain, made

traceries of shadow on the gleaming folds of her garments. In an

instant she was gone and I was alone.

I was strangely shaken by the vision, and some time passed before I

could rise to my feet, for I was still weak from my illness, and the

sight I had seen would have startled any one. I did not reason with

myself, for I was certain that I had looked on the unearthly, and no

argument could have destroyed that belief. At last I got up and stood

unsteadily, gazing in the direction in which I thought the face had

gone; but there was nothing to be seen--nothing but the broad paths,

the tall, dark evergreen hedges, the tossing water of the fountains and

the smooth pool below. I fell back upon the seat and recalled the face

I had seen. Strange to say, now that the first impression had passed,

there was nothing startling in the recollection; on the contrary, I

felt that I was fascinated by the face, and would give anything to see

it again. I could retrace the beautiful straight features, the long

dark eyes, and the wonderful mouth most exactly in my mind, and when I

had reconstructed every detail from memory I knew that the whole was

beautiful, and that I should love a woman with such a face.

"I wonder whether she is the Woman of the Water!" I said to myself.

Then rising once more, I wandered down the garden, descending one short

flight of steps after another from terrace to terrace by the edge of

the marble basins, through the shadow and through the moonlight; and I

crossed the water by the rustic bridge above the artificial grotto, and

climbed slowly up again to the highest terrace by the other side. The

air seemed sweeter, and I was very calm, so that I think I smiled to

myself as I walked, as though a new happiness had come to me. The

woman's face seemed always before me, and the thought of it gave me an

unwonted thrill of pleasure, unlike anything I had ever felt before.

I turned as I reached the house, and looked back upon the scene. It

had certainly changed in the short hour since I had come out, and my

mood had changed with it. Just like my luck, I thought, to fall in

love with a ghost! But in old times I would have sighed; and gone to

bed more sad than ever, at such a melancholy conclusion. To-night I

felt happy, almost for the first time in my life. The gloomy old study

seemed cheerful when I went in. The old pictures on the walls smiled

at me, and I sat down in my deep chair with a new and delightful

sensation that I was not alone. The idea of having seen a ghost, and

of feeling much the better for it, was so absurd that I laughed softly,

as I took up one of the books I had brought with me and began to read.

That impression did not wear off. I slept peacefully, and in the

morning I threw open my windows to the summer air and looked down at

the garden, at the stretches of green and at the colored flower-beds,

at the circling swallows and at the bright water.

"A man might make a paradise of this place," I exclaimed. "A man and a

woman together!"

From that day the old Castle no longer seemed gloomy, and I think I

ceased to be sad; for some time, too, I began to take an interest in

the place, and to try and make it more alive. I avoided my old Welsh

nurse, lest she should damp my humor with some dismal prophecy, and

recall my old self by bringing back memories of my dismal childhood.

But what I thought of most was the ghostly figure I had seen in the

garden that first night after my arrival. I went out every evening and

wandered through the walks and paths; but, try as I might, I did not

see my vision again. At last, after many days, the memory grew more

faint, and my old moody nature gradually overcame the temporary sense

of lightness I had experienced. The summer turned to autumn, and I

grew restless. It began to rain. The dampness pervaded the gardens,

and the outer halls smelled musty, like tombs; the gray sky oppressed

me intolerably. I left the place as it was and went abroad, determined

to try anything which might possibly make a second break in the

monotonous melancholy from which I suffered.

II

Most people would be struck by the utter insignificance of the small

events which, after the death of my parents, influenced my life and

made me unhappy. The gruesome forebodings of a Welsh nurse, which

chanced to be realized by an odd coincidence of events, should not seem

enough to change the nature of a child and to direct the bent of his

character in after years. The little disappointments of schoolboy

life, and the somewhat less childish ones of an uneventful and

undistinguished academic career, should not have sufficed to turn me

out at one-and-twenty-years of age a melancholic, listless idler. Some

weakness of my own character may have contributed to the result, but in

a greater degree it was due to my having a reputation for bad luck.

However, I will not try to analyze the causes of my state, for I should

satisfy nobody, least of all myself. Still less will I attempt to

explain why I felt a temporary revival of my spirits after my adventure

in the garden. It is certain that I was in love with the face I had

seen, and that I longed to see it again; that I gave up all hope of a

second visitation, grew more sad than ever, packed up my traps, and

finally went abroad. But in my dreams I went back to my home, and it

always appeared to me sunny and bright, as it had looked on that

summer's morning after I had seen the woman by the fountain.

I went to Paris. I went farther, and wandered about Germany. I tried

to amuse myself, and I failed miserably. With the aimless whims of an

idle and useless man come all sorts of suggestions for good

resolutions. One day I made up my mind that I would go and bury myself

in a German university for a time, and live simply like a poor student.

I started with the intention of going to Leipzig, determined to stay

there until some event should direct my life or change my humor, or

make an end of me altogether. The express train stopped at some

station of which I did not know the name. It was dusk on a winter's

afternoon, and I peered through the thick glass from my seat. Suddenly

another train came gliding in from the opposite direction, and stopped

alongside of ours. I looked at the carriage which chanced to be

abreast of mine, and idly read the black letters painted on a white

board swinging from the brass handrail: Berlin--Cologne--Paris. Then I

looked up at the window above. I started violently, and the cold

perspiration broke out upon my forehead. In the dim light, not six

feet from where I sat, I saw the face of a woman, the face I loved, the

straight, fine features, the strange eyes, the wonderful mouth, the

pale skin. Her head-dress was a dark veil which seemed to be tied

about her head and passed over the shoulders under her chin. As I

threw down the window and knelt on the cushioned seat, leaning far out

to get a better view, a long whistle screamed through the station,

followed by a quick series of dull, clanking sounds; then there was a

slight jerk, and my train moved on. Luckily the window was narrow,

being the one over the seat, beside the door, or I believe I would have

jumped out of it then and there. In an instant the speed increased,

and I was being carried swiftly away in the opposite direction from the

thing I loved.

For a quarter of an hour I lay back in my place, stunned by the

suddenness of the apparition. At last one of the two other passengers,

a large and gorgeous captain of the White Konigsberg Cuirassiers,

civilly but firmly suggested that I might shut my window, as the

evening was cold. I did so, with an apology, and relapsed into

silence. The train ran swiftly on for a long time, and it was already

beginning to slacken speed before entering another station, when I

roused myself and made a sudden resolution. As the carriage stopped

before the brilliantly lighted platform, I seized my belongings,

saluted my fellow-passengers, and got out, determined to take the first

express back to Paris.

This time the circumstances of the vision had been so natural that it

did not strike me that there was anything unreal about the face, or

about the woman to whom it belonged. I did not try to explain to

myself how the face, and the woman, could be travelling by a fast train

from Berlin to Paris on a winter's afternoon, when both were in my mind

indelibly associated with the moonlight and the fountains in my own

English home. I certainly would not have admitted that I had been

mistaken in the dusk, attributing to what I had seen a resemblance to

my former vision which did not really exist. There was not the

slightest doubt in my mind, and I was positively sure that I had again

seen the face I loved. I did not hesitate, and in a few hours I was on

my way back to Paris. I could not help reflecting on my ill luck.

Wandering as I had been for many months, it might as easily have

chanced that I should be travelling in the same train with that woman,

instead of going the other way. But my luck was destined to turn for a

time.

I searched Paris for several days. I dined at the principal hotels; I

went to the theatres; I rode in the Bois de Boulogne in the morning,

and picked up an acquaintance, whom I forced to drive with me in the

afternoon. I went to mass at the Madeleine, and I attended the

services at the English Church. I hung about the Louvre and Notre

Dame. I went to Versailles. I spent hours in parading the Rue de

Rivoli, in the neighborhood of Meurice's corner, where foreigners pass

and repass from morning till night. At last I received an invitation

to a reception at the English Embassy. I went, and I found what I had

sought so long.

There she was, sitting by an old lady in gray satin and diamonds, who

had a wrinkled but kindly face and keen gray eyes that seemed to take

in everything they saw, with very little inclination to give much in

return. But I did not notice the chaperon. I saw only the face that

had haunted me for months, and in the excitement of the moment I walked

quickly towards the pair, forgetting such a trifle as the necessity for

an introduction.

She was far more beautiful than I had thought, but I never doubted that

it was she herself and no other. Vision or no vision before, this was

the reality, and I knew it. Twice her hair had been covered, now at

last I saw it, and the added beauty of its magnificence glorified the

whole woman. It was rich hair, fine and abundant, golden, with deep

ruddy tints in it like red bronze spun fine. There was no ornament in

it, not a rose, not a thread of gold, and I felt that it needed nothing

to enhance its splendor; nothing but her pale face, her dark strange

eyes, and her heavy eyebrows. I could see that she was slender too,

but strong withal, as she sat there quietly gazing at the moving scene

in the midst of the brilliant lights and the hum of perpetual

conversation.

I recollected the detail of introduction in time, and turned aside to

look for my host. I found him at last. I begged him to present me to

the two ladies, pointing them out to him at the same time.

"Yes--uh--by all means--uh," replied his Excellency with a pleasant

smile. He evidently had no idea of my name, which was not to be

wondered at.

"I am Lord Cairngorm," I observed.

"Oh--by all means," answered the Ambassador with the same hospitable

smile. "Yes--uh--the fact is, I must try and find out who they are;

such lots of people, you know."

"Oh, if you will present me, I will try and find out for you," said I,

laughing.

"Ah, yes--so kind of you--come along," said my host. We threaded the

crowd, and in a few minutes we stood before the two ladies.

"'Lowmintrduce L'd Cairngorm," he said; then, adding quickly to me,

"Come and dine to-morrow, won't you?" he glided away with his pleasant

smile and disappeared in the crowd.

I sat down beside the beautiful girl, conscious that the eyes of the

duenna were upon me.

"I think we have been very near meeting before," I remarked, by way of

opening the conversation.

My companion turned her eyes full upon me with an air of inquiry. She

evidently did not recall my face, if she had ever seen me.

"Really--I cannot remember," she observed, in a low and musical voice.

"When?"

"In the first place, you came down from Berlin by the express ten days

ago. I was going the other way, and our carriages stopped opposite

each other. I saw you at the window."

"Yes--we came that way, but I do not remember--" She hesitated.

"Secondly," I continued, "I was sitting alone in my garden last

summer--near the end of July--do you remember? You must have wandered

in there through the park; you came up to the house and looked at me--"

"Was that you?" she asked, in evident surprise. Then she broke into a

laugh. "I told everybody I had seen a ghost; there had never been any

Cairngorms in the place since the memory of man. We left the next day,

and never heard that you had come there; indeed, I did not know the

castle belonged to you."

"Where were you staying?" I asked

"Where? Why, with my aunt, where I always stay. She is your neighbor,

since it _is_ you."

"I--beg your pardon--but then--is your aunt Lady Bluebell? I did not

quite catch--"

"Don't be afraid. She is amazingly deaf. Yes. She is the relict of

my beloved uncle, the sixteenth or seventeenth Baron Bluebell--I forget

exactly how many of them there have been. And I--do you know who I

am?" She laughed, well knowing that I did not.

"No," I answered frankly. "I have not the least idea. I asked to be

introduced because I recognized you. Perhaps--perhaps you are a Miss

Bluebell?"

"Considering that you are a neighbor, I will tell you who I am," she

answered. "No; I am of the tribe of Bluebells, but my name is Lammas,

and I have been given to understand that I was christened Margaret.

Being a floral family, they call me Daisy. A dreadful American man

once told me that my aunt was a Bluebell and that I was a

Harebell--with two l's and an e--because my hair is so thick. I warn

you, so that you may avoid making such a bad pun."

"Do I look like a man who makes puns?" I asked, being very conscious of

my melancholy face and sad looks.

Miss Lammas eyed me critically.

"No; you have a mournful temperament. I think I can trust you," she

answered. "Do you think you could communicate to my aunt the fact that

you are a Cairngorm and a neighbor? I am sure she would like to know."

I leaned towards the old lady, inflating my lungs for a yell. But Miss

Lammas stopped me.

"That is not of the slightest use," she remarked. "You can write it on

a bit of paper. She is utterly deaf."

"I have a pencil," I answered; "but I have no paper. Would my cuff do,

do you think?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Miss Lammas, with alacrity; "men often do that."

I wrote on my cuff: "Miss Lammas wishes me to explain that I am your

neighbor, Cairngorm." Then I held out my arm before the old lady's

nose. She seemed perfectly accustomed to the proceeding, put up her

glasses, read the words, smiled, nodded, and addressed me in the

unearthly voice peculiar to people who hear nothing.

"I knew your grandfather very well," she said. Then she smiled and

nodded to me again, and to her niece, and relapsed into silence.

"It is all right," remarked Miss Lammas. "Aunt Bluebell knows she is

deaf, and does not say much, like the parrot. You see, she knew your

grandfather. How odd that we should be neighbors! Why have we never

met before?"

"If you had told me you knew my grandfather when you appeared in the

garden, I should not have been in the least surprised," I answered

rather irrelevantly. "I really thought you were the ghost of the old

fountain. How in the world did you come there at that hour?"

"We were a large party and we went out for a walk. Then we thought we

should like to see what your park was like in the moonlight, and so we

trespassed. I got separated from the rest, and came upon you by

accident, just as I was admiring the extremely ghostly look of your

house, and wondering whether anybody would ever come and live there

again. It looks like the castle of Macbeth, or a scene from the opera.

Do you know anybody here?"

"Hardly a soul! Do you?"

"No. Aunt Bluebell said it was our duty to come. It is easy for her

to go out; she does not bear the burden of the conversation."

"I am sorry you find it a burden," said I. "Shall I go away?"

Miss Lammas looked at me with a sudden gravity in her beautiful eyes,

and there was a sort of hesitation about the lines of her full, soft

mouth.

"No," she said at last, quite simply, "don't go away. We may like each

other, if you stay a little longer--and we ought to, because we are

neighbors in the country."

I suppose I ought to have thought Miss Lammas a very odd girl. There

is, indeed, a sort of freemasonry between people who discover that they

live near each other and that they ought to have known each other

before. But there was a sort of unexpected frankness and simplicity in

the girl's amusing manner which would have struck any one else as being

singular, to say the least of it. To me, however, it all seemed

natural enough. I had dreamed of her face too long not to be utterly

happy when I met her at last and could talk to her as much as I

pleased. To me, the man of ill luck in everything, the whole meeting

seemed too good to be true. I felt again that strange sensation of

lightness which I had experienced after I had seen her face in the

garden. The great rooms seemed brighter, life seemed worth living; my

sluggish, melancholy blood ran faster, and filled me with a new sense

of strength. I said to myself that without this woman I was but an

imperfect being, but that with her I could accomplish everything to

which I should set my hand. Like the great Doctor, when he thought he

had cheated Mephistopheles at last, I could have cried aloud to the

fleeting moment, _Verweile dock, du bist so schön_!

"Are you always gay?" I asked, suddenly. "How happy you must be!"

"The days would sometimes seem very long if I were gloomy," she

answered, thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I find life very pleasant, and I

tell it so."

"How can you 'tell life' anything?" I inquired. "If I could catch my

life and talk to it, I would abuse it prodigiously, I assure you."

"I dare say. You have a melancholy temper. You ought to live

out-of-doors, dig potatoes; make hay, shoot, hunt, tumble into ditches,

and come home muddy and hungry for dinner. It would be much better for

you than moping in your rook tower and hating everything."

"It is rather lonely down there," I murmured, apologetically, feeling

that Miss Lammas was quite right.

"Then marry, and quarrel with your wife," she laughed. "Anything is

better than being alone."

"I am a very peaceable person. I never quarrel with anybody. You can

try it. You will find it quite impossible."

"Will you let me try?" she asked, still smiling.

"By all means--especially if it is to be only a preliminary canter," I

answered, rashly.

"What do you mean?" she inquired, turning quickly upon me.

"Oh--nothing. You might try my paces with a view to quarrelling in the

future. I cannot imagine how you are going to do it. You will have to

resort to immediate and direct abuse."

"No. I will only say that if you do not like your life, it is your own

fault. How can a man of your age talk of being melancholy, or of the

hollowness of existence? Are you consumptive? Are you subject to

hereditary insanity? Are you deaf, like Aunt Bluebell? Are you poor,

like--lots of people? Have you been crossed in love? Have you lost

the world for a woman, or any particular woman for the sake of the

world? Are you feeble-minded, a cripple, an outcast? Are

you--repulsively ugly?" She laughed again. "Is there any reason in

the world why you should not enjoy all you have got in life?"

"No. There is no reason whatever, except that I am dreadfully unlucky,

especially in small things."

"Then try big things, just for a change," suggested Miss Lammas. "Try

and get married, for instance, and see how it turns out."

"If it turned out badly it would be rather serious."

"Not half so serious as it is to abuse everything unreasonably. If

abuse is your particular talent, abuse something that ought to be

abused. Abuse the Conservatives--or the Liberals--it does not matter

which, since they are always abusing each other. Make yourself felt by

other people. You will like it, if they don't. It will make a man of

you. Fill your mouth with pebbles, and howl at the sea, if you cannot

do anything else. It did Demosthenes no end of good, you know. You

will have the satisfaction of imitating a great man."

"Really, Miss Lammas, I think the list of innocent exercises you

propose--"

"Very well--if you don't care for that sort of thing, care for some

other sort of thing. Care for something, or hate something. Don't be

idle. Life is short, and though art may be long, plenty of noise

answers nearly as well."

"I do care for something--I mean, somebody," I said.

"A woman? Then marry her. Don't hesitate."

"I do not know whether she would marry me," I replied. "I have never

asked her."

"Then ask her at once," answered Miss Lammas. "I shall die happy if I

feel I have persuaded a melancholy fellow-creature to rouse himself to

action. Ask her, by all means, and see what she says. If she does not

accept you at once, she may take you the next time. Meanwhile, you

will have entered for the race. If you lose, there are the 'All-aged

Trial Stakes,' and the 'Consolation Race.'"

"And plenty of selling races into the bargain. Shall I take you at

your word, Miss Lammas?"

"I hope you will," she answered.

"Since you yourself advise me, I will. Miss Lammas, will you do me the

honor to marry me?"

For the first time in my life the blood rushed to my head and my sight

swam. I cannot tell why I said it. It would be useless to try to

explain the extraordinary fascination the girl exercised over me, or

the still more extraordinary feeling of intimacy with her which had

grown in me during that half-hour. Lonely, sad, unlucky as I had been

all my life, I was certainly not timid, nor even shy. But to propose

to marry a woman after half an hour's acquaintance was a piece of

madness of which I never believed myself capable, and of which I should

never be capable again, could I be placed in the same situation. It

was as though my whole being had been changed in a moment by magic--by

the white magic of her nature brought into contact with mine. The

blood sank back to my heart, and a moment later I found myself staring

at her with anxious eyes. To my amazement she was as calm as ever, but

her beautiful mouth smiled, and there was a mischievous light in her

dark-brown eyes.

"Fairly caught," she answered. "For an individual who pretends to be

listless and sad you are not lacking in humor. I had really not the

least idea what you were going to say. Wouldn't it be singularly

awkward for you if I had said 'Yes'? I never saw anybody begin to

practise so sharply what was preached to him--with so very little loss

of time!"

"You probably never met a man who had dreamed of you for seven months

before being introduced."

"No, I never did," she answered gaily. "It smacks of the romantic.

Perhaps you are a romantic character, after all. I should think you

were if I believed you. Very well; you have taken my advice, entered

for a Stranger's Race and lost it. Try the All-aged Trial Stakes. You

have another cuff, and a pencil. Propose to Aunt Bluebell; she would

dance with astonishment, and she might recover her hearing."

III

That was how I first asked Margaret Lammas to be my wife, and I will

agree with any one who says I behaved very foolishly. But I have not

repented of it, and I never shall. I have long ago understood that I

was out of my mind that evening, but I think my temporary insanity on

that occasion has had the effect of making me a saner man ever since.

Her manner turned my head, for it was so different from what I had

expected. To hear this lovely creature, who, in my imagination, was a

heroine of romance, if not of tragedy, talking familiarly and laughing

readily was more than my equanimity could bear, and I lost my head as

well as my heart. But when I went back to England in the spring, I

went to make certain arrangements at the Castle--certain changes and

improvements which would be absolutely necessary. I had won the race

for which I had entered myself so rashly, and we were to be married in

June.

Whether the change was due to the orders I had left with the gardener

and the rest of the servants, or to my own state of mind, I cannot

tell. At all events, the old place did not look the same to me when I

opened my window on the morning after my arrival. There were the gray

walls below me and the gray turrets flanking the huge building; there

were the fountains, the marble causeways, the smooth basins, the tall

box hedges, the water-lilies, and the swans, just as of old. But there

was something else there, too--something in the air, in the water, and

in the greenness that I did not recognize--a light over everything by

which everything was transfigured. The clock in the tower struck

seven, and the strokes of the ancient bell sounded like a wedding

chime. The air sang with the thrilling treble of the song-birds, with

the silvery music of the plashing water and the softer harmony of the

leaves stirred by the fresh morning wind. There was a smell of

new-mown hay from the distant meadows, and of blooming roses from the

beds below, wafted up together to my window. I stood in the pure

sunshine and drank the air and all the sounds and the odors that were

in it; and I looked down at my garden and said: "It is Paradise, after

all." I think the men of old were right when they called heaven a

garden, and Eden a garden inhabited by one man and one woman, the

Earthly Paradise.

I turned away, wondering what had become of the gloomy memories I had

always associated with my home. I tried to recall the impression of my

nurse's horrible prophecy before the death of my parents--an impression

which hitherto had been vivid enough. I tried to remember my old self,

my dejection, my listlessness, my bad luck, my petty disappointments.

I endeavored to force myself to think as I used to think, if only to

satisfy myself that I had not lost my individuality. But I succeeded

in none of these efforts. I was a different man, a changed being,

incapable of sorrow, of ill luck, or of sadness. My life had been a

dream, not evil, but infinitely gloomy and hopeless. It was now a

reality, full of hope, gladness, and all manner of good. My home had

been like a tomb; to-day it was Paradise. My heart had been as though

it had not existed; to-day it beat with strength and youth and the

certainty of realized happiness. I revelled in the beauty of the

world, and called loveliness out of the future to enjoy it before time

should bring it to me, as a traveller in the plains looks up to the

mountains, and already tastes the cool air through the dust of the road.

Here, I thought, we will live and live for years. There we will sit by

the fountain towards evening and in the deep moonlight. Down those

paths we will wander together. On those benches we will rest and talk.

Among those eastern hills we will ride through the soft twilight, and

in the old house we will tell tales on winter nights, when the logs

burn high, and the holly berries are red, and the old clock tolls out

the dying year. On these old steps, in these dark passages and stately

rooms, there will one day be the sound of little pattering feet, and

laughing child-voices will ring up to the vaults of the ancient hall.

Those tiny footsteps shall not be slow and sad as mine were, nor shall

the childish words be spoken in an awed whisper. No gloomy Welshwoman

shall people the dusky corners with weird horrors, nor utter horrid

prophecies of death and ghastly things. All shall be young, and fresh,

and joyful, and happy, and we will turn the old luck again, and forget

that there was ever any sadness.

So I thought, as I looked out of my window that morning and for many

mornings after that, and every day it all seemed more real than ever

before, and much nearer. But the old nurse looked at me askance, and

muttered odd sayings about the Woman of the Water. I cared little what

she said, for I was far too happy.

At last the time came near for the wedding. Lady Bluebell and all the

tribe of Bluebells, as Margaret called them, were at Bluebell Grange,

for we had determined to be married in the country, and to come

straight to the Castle afterwards. We cared little for travelling, and

not at all for a crowded ceremony at St George's in Hanover Square,

with all the tiresome formalities afterwards. I used to ride over to

the Grange every day, and very often Margaret would come with her aunt

and some of her consuls to the Castle. I was suspicious of my own

taste, and was only too glad to let her have her way about the

alterations and improvements in our home.

We were to be married on the thirtieth of July, and on the evening of

the twenty-eighth Margaret drove over with some of the Bluebell party.

In the long summer twilight we all went out into the garden. Naturally

enough, Margaret and I were left to ourselves, and we wandered down by

the marble basins.

"It is an odd coincidence," I said; "it was on this very night last

year that I first saw you."

"Considering that it is the month of July," answered Margaret with a

laugh, "and that we have been here almost every day, I don't think the

coincidence is so extraordinary, after all."

"No, dear," said I, "I suppose not. I don't know why it struck me. We

shall very likely be here a year from to-day, and a year from that.

The odd thing, when I think of it, is that you should be here at all.

But my luck has turned. I ought not to think anything odd that happens

now that I have you. It is all sure to be good."

"A slight change in your ideas since that remarkable performance of

yours in Paris," said Margaret. "Do you know, I thought you were the

most extraordinary man I had ever met."

"I thought you were the most charming woman I had ever seen. I

naturally did not want to lose any time in frivolities. I took you at

your word, I followed your advice, I asked you to marry me, and this is

the delightful result--what's the matter?"

Margaret had started suddenly, and her hand tightened on my arm. An

old woman was coming up the path, and was close to us before we saw

her, for the moon had risen, and was shining full in our faces. The

woman turned out to be my old nurse.

"It's only Judith, dear--don't be frightened," I said. Then I spoke to

the Welshwoman: "What are you about, Judith? Have you been feeding the

Woman of the Water?"

"Ay--when the clock strikes, Willie--my Lord, I mean," muttered the old

creature, drawing aside to let us pass, and fixing her strange eyes on

Margaret's face.

"What does she mean?" asked Margaret, when we had gone by.--"Nothing,

darling. The old thing is mildly crazy, but she is a good soul."

We went on in silence for a few moments, and came to the rustic bridge

just above the artificial grotto through which the water ran out into

the park, dark and swift in its narrow channel. We stopped, and leaned

on the wooden rail. The moon was now behind us, and shone full upon

the long vista of basins and on the huge walls and towers of the Castle

above.--"How proud you ought to be of such a grand old place!" said

Margaret, softly.

"It is yours now, darling," I answered. "You have as good a right to

love it as I--but I only love it because you are to live in it, dear."

Her hand stole out and lay on mine, and we were both silent. Just then

the clock began to strike far off in the tower. I

counted--eight--nine--ten--eleven--I looked at my

watch--twelve--thirteen--I laughed. The bell went on striking.

"The old clock has gone crazy, like Judith," I exclaimed. Still it

went on, note after note ringing out monotonously through the still

air. We leaned over the rail, instinctively looking in the direction