MY TUSSLE
WITH THE DEVIL
_AND OTHER STORIES_
By
O. HENRY’S GHOST
[Illustration]
I. M. Y. COMPANY
NEW YORK
1918
Copyright, 1918,
by I. M. Y. Company
The Barrage Fire
I feel I cannot give O. Henry’s Ghost better ammunition with which to
meet his critics than a bit of truth voiced by Joan in one of Algernon
Blackwood’s wonderful books.
“The beloved dead step nearer when their bodies drop aside. They know
where they are and what they are doing. It’s not for us to worry--in
that way. And they are _out of hours and minutes_.”
To meet the onslaught of you, Mr. Scoffer and Mr. Skeptic, who will
say, “Impossible! They are not a bit like O. Henry’s stories! They
lack all his virility, etc., etc.” I say at once, of course they are
different! Where before his stories were written in the bold black and
red of human passions, which belong to materiality, now, they must of
necessity be pastel in hue and delicate gossamer things, for O. Henry’s
Ghost is using finer material to mold his creations. The land where he
dwells is subject to a different rate of vibration, and as the rhythm
must be totally unlike, it is natural that the thoughts should flow and
take form in the vehicle of poets.
But one characteristic is dominant still--the completeness of each
Pastel. Not a word more is needed to complete a picture or convey an
emotion, and while the aspiration of O. Henry’s Ghost has changed and
he deals with higher, finer forces and desires, he still retains his
mastery of the short story.
Attack from all sides, if you will, but the only guns you can fire are,
“I believe” and “I think,” which shall bring forth in reply the bomb “I
KNOW!!”
Because the spirit known as O. Henry came before the curtain on
this particular stage in the garb of heavy woolen materiality,
thundering vivid, scarlet tales, is no reason why, having made his
exit,--after playing out his role,--he should not return in a different
characterization and in chiffon garb.
If he is not recognized in the new one upon his entrance it is no
evidence that the same spirit does not animate both, and the perfection
of detail and artistry in both characterizations is convincing proof of
the same dominant spirit.
While the stories necessarily reflect in their style the high
aspiration that prompted them, they prove, as O. Henry’s Ghost so
vividly remarked, that a leopard can change its spots.
Flashes of the O. Henry who wrote “The Man About Town” are found in
the bits of personal conversation from O. Henry’s Ghost, and the old
and new are blended in the following birthday greeting: “I give you
my gladsome wish for a comrade and gratitude for opening the doors
to a scrivener. If it was the olden days I should have been foolish
enough to say ‘Have a drink to celebrate.’ Now I shall tell you to take
a whiff of ambrosia fit for gods and shall join you with a gladsome
spirit. Here’s how!”
The sledge hammer blows wielded by the personality of O. Henry can
only dull to insensibility and bring forth a murmur of “I think” and
“I believe,” while the darting shafts of O. Henry’s Ghost will pierce
the clouds and bring forth the chorus of “I know” to those who, having
eyes--see--and having ears--hear!
It is today the same as when Plato said:
“Strange times are these in which we live, forsooth:
When old and young are taught in Falsehood’s School!
And the one man who dares to tell the Truth
Is called at once a ‘Lunatic’ and ‘Fool.’”
But at any rate, they go forth at the request of O. Henry’s Ghost and
with the belief that the beauty of thought will be a joyful remembrance
of one who was known as O. Henry.
PARMA.
June 27th, 1918.
158 Ocean Boulevard,
Atlantic Highlands,
New Jersey.
Contents
=Comments= 13
=“Over There”= 33
=Foreword= 37
MY TUSSLE WITH THE DEVIL 41
THE CONTEST 57
SLEEPING 67
YEARNING 75
ANIMALS--
Weariness-- I. The King 87
II. The Toiler 88
The Slave 91
FLOWERS--
Missionaries 101
JEWELS--
Multitudes 107
REMEMBRANCES 113
MUNITIONS 119
GOING HOME 127
MY HEARTH 135
THE THREE H’S 143
THE SENSES 161
FANCIES--
Fancies 167
Trusting 170
Thoughts 171
Thinking 172
YESTERDAY--TO-DAY 177
ACTION--REACTION 189
A VISION 195
Transcriber’s Note
Comments
THE COMING OF THE STORIES
From the first we used the Ouija Board not as a toy, but as a serious
medium through which we received guidance in our affairs and teachings
of the Great Law of Life, for which we were searching. We were
determined to have only the truth, and so we eliminated the frivolous
and deceiving, who are ever on the watch for the ignorant user of the
“Board”--to amuse themselves with his credulity, or through sheer
devilishness to lead him to disaster--material and spiritual.
Those with whom we talked were Great Invisible Teachers--who were
on the Earth plane to help humanity--and a close relative whose
development we followed with intense interest, and to whose advice in
critical moments we owe much.
This was the situation when early in September, 1917, we were told
that if we would sit at the “Board” each afternoon about four-thirty
o’clock, with a positive determination to receive only that which was
worth while, and shut the door at once to anyone whose offerings did
not reach a high standard, we would receive things that would surprise
us.
Accordingly, on September 18, 1917, we waited results--they came as
follows:
“_My little talent I suppose you will consider insufficient._”
“Who are you?” we asked.
“_Useless to give name_,” came the answer. “_If you do not know when
the story is finished, it is N. G._”
“_I wish to tell the world what is theirs for the asking. To try and
give them a new viewpoint in place of their erroneous ideas._”
“_I did not know as much then as I do now. Before I wrote what the Self
saw only--now it is what I know._”
“We’ll take a chance--go ahead,” I said.
Then followed a story called “The Contest.”
How do we know it was the spirit of O. Henry? We will let the record
speak for itself. The truth always carries conviction, except to minds
the doors of which are double-barred.
It was evidently the first time this Spirit had used a Ouija Board, for
he was not sure of the location of the letters, and after the first
paragraph said:
“_My force is insufficient; it tires me to spell each word so slowly._”
We told him to go as fast as he liked. He soon learned how to apply
his force, and all went smoothly.
When the story ended, I wrote the name “_O. Henry_” on a slip of paper
and asked if I had guessed correctly. The reply was “_Yes_.”
We were so impressed with the story that I said, “It is good enough for
the Atlantic Monthly.”
The comment was, “_If they take it, my revenge would be complete. That
is for the ‘Elite,’ I did not belong._”
The next day came first what was evidently a title, “_My tussle with
the Devil_.”
We asked, “Who is speaking today?”
“_An imaginative fellow_,” was the reply.
“Is it the same with whom we talked yesterday?” we asked. “_Yes; it is
a joy once more to weave a plot._”
A little later, when the work was resumed after an interruption of
several days, O. Henry’s Ghost began with:
“_I am glad to see you._”
“Did you miss us?”
“_That’s what!_” was the answer.
The day was rainy and the story rather serious, or so it impressed us,
for we asked:
“Why don’t you give us a cheerful story?”
His reply silenced further suggestions. It was:
“_Kindly allow me to express what I feel._”
O. Henry’s individuality was clearly marked from the first and we had
no doubt about his genuineness, but an incident which occurred one
afternoon may serve to convince the skeptical.
Several times we had been bothered by the interruptions of a boy Spirit
called William Mumm, who was possessed with an over-developed sense
of humor. Often we knew that O. Henry was being crowded by others who
thought that they should be given a chance to express themselves, and
once or twice the writing stopped until things quieted down. On this
occasion Mumm broke in with, “Henry is giving too many orders.”
On being told in a forceful way what we thought of his interference, he
said, “My word! That was a hot shot! I won’t butt in again:”--and he
didn’t.
Later, when we asked O. Henry whether others were present, he said,
“_They are hanging around, but not butting in._”
As we got better acquainted, there was more conversation of a personal
nature before the story for the day was started.
To the question whether before he “crossed over” he had had any real
Truth, he said:
“_No, my teaching was hell and damnation._”
We, of course, were curious to know how he discovered us. His answer
was in line with what we had been taught--that each person appears as a
light, shining with increasing brilliancy as one learns the Truth and
lives it. He said:
“_Letting your light so shine led me here--I desired to tell what I
felt and knew, and sought an avenue; your beacon beckoned me, and your
teacher bade me enter._”
Once when we mentioned a financial pressure he said:
“_That’s the only hell there is on earth--that and lack of love which
sends one to rum shops._”
After another break in our work with the stories, we were welcomed with:
“_It has been a long time since we have talked. I wish you joy._”
To our usual question “who is with us?” came the answer:
“_I was called Henry._”
A glimpse into conditions on the “other side” was given when we asked
O. Henry whether he had found a friend of whose “passing over” we had
told him.
“_No_,” he replied; “_I have not found him. He must be resting, and we
make it a point never to disturb, for the rest periods are of the most
importance and hasten growth. I shall watch for him when he makes his
mansion._”
“What do you mean by that?” we asked.
“_In the beginning of life here we make little progress--unless
knowledge of the Truth has been ours before coming over. That is why it
is so necessary to learn before leaving the Earth Sphere. Without that
one must wander aimlessly or rest and gaze at things of the past--and
our associates are other unfortunates who have had closed ears before
leaving._
“_When one has reviewed a certain number of lives--or generally
a sequence of events--then comes a tender friend who points out
advantageous work and study, and which, if followed, always means the
beginning of progress and growth. It is only after that has been made
use of that we begin our mansion or abiding place._
“_Keep it always in your mind, the foundation stones are Knowledge,
Wisdom, Power--and then it is built by the thought and desire of
Aspiration, Beauty and Love._
“_I want to impress upon you and all mankind the necessity of
‘Knowing,’ and, what is more to the point, ‘Believing.’_
“_If you will lend me your pencil, most generous person, I may be able
to say all I want. Now it seems as if I never would be able to get rid
of it all._
“_If you would publish a magazine it would be a ‘hummer.’ The trouble
is, there is no periodical which has any one back of it who KNOWS. They
all prattle and the almighty dollar is the main thing. Truth would
bring them faster than anything if they would only believe it. Let’s
work it out! It would be great! Now to work, if you don’t mind._
“_In a sunny nook by a babbling brook I have built my mansion._”
O. Henry was very enthusiastic over the idea of a magazine. Referring
to it again, he said, “_Call it the Sphinx. Get at it at once. Have it
contain only tales which teach, and Wisdom._”
Once when he talked on until late in the evening, and we became tired,
he said, when the lateness of the hour was mentioned:
“_It is all the same here; I forget. My impatience is still that
stumbling block. With many thanks--good night._”
One rainy day we were ready earlier than usual and O. Henry was
evidently in exceptionally good humor, greeting us with:
“_Well, this is a surprise! It’s bully!_”
“_Kind of nice in here. We do not feel the rain, but we like sunshine
better._”
One story we received was not up to the O. Henry standard, and we did
not hesitate to say so. Our views must have been rather more forcefully
expressed than we realized, for he said:
... “_I have read and had many criticisms of my stories before, but
they never came as hard or as fast as this one. Wipe it out._”
With that he redictated the last half of the story, changing it
completely and to the satisfaction of all.
With his next story we were particularly pleased, and on our saying so,
he said:
“_I thank you and am glad you really like it. Have to watch my P’s and
Q’s now or I will lose my publisher. It is great to be compelled to do
one’s best. It means the continuation of aspiration. Lying Spirits do
not aspire. Having publishers who will accept nothing but the truth and
only the best one is capable of is a bit of a novelty. Pity there are
not more of them for material, as well as spiritual fiction. You might
get Hoover to add that plan for conservation of paper and ink. If we
over here had more publishers like you there would be more truth spread
broadcast. The trouble is most of the offices accept anything, just so
it has a name attached._”
“_What’s in a name?--Nothing._”
“_What’s in a Truth?--Everything._”
Unless the Spirit moving the indicator on the board is an advanced
soul, having great power, he usually draws from the persons he is
working through. This O. Henry was at times forced to do, and so we
understood, when one day, instead of starting a story he said:
“_Your teacher says you hesitate to tell when you are tired. Better
to have a perfect pen for two lines, than none at all for twenty.
Tell me the moment you become fatigued. There is time for the lot.
If you are depleted through my coming, it will be curtailed, if not
stopped, and that would be too dreadful! Much better a half a loaf at
a time than none at all. Please tell me. Your teacher thinks you have
sufficient without what I am dictating, but feels that it is worth
while providing you are not in any way injured by the work. I so want
to have the opportunity. Do, kind person, tell me and let us go slower.
Last night I chattered; no reason for it at all, except the pleasure of
doing it, and you were tired, the teacher says, before I began._”
We agreed to be more careful, and O. Henry said:
“_That’s a bargain._”
In speaking of the many plots crowding his mind and which he wanted to
express, he said:
“_Riches are a burden at times. I wish to rid myself of them. Quick
returns will follow. With much material off my mind I shall be able to
develop much, more worth while. Hurry! Life takes up so many hours._”
Before starting a series of stories of a different nature from those
given first, he said:
“_My wish is to widen the horizon. It is important for humanity to
know. It must recognize the oneness of everything. We will write of
more than man. I will give a series. First Beasts--then Flowers and
Jewels._”
When these stories were completed, everything seemed to conspire to
prevent the devoting of a quiet hour to O. Henry and his stories.
Whenever constructive work is done, by which the Truth may be brought
to many, the forces of destruction are arrayed in opposition. This we
felt to the full. Twice stories were started and stopped after only a
few paragraphs had been written. In one it was evident that O. Henry
had been pushed aside and a complete sentence injected by some “Power
of Darkness.” We at once realized the situation and put the “Board”
away.
When next O. Henry came, he said:
“_The time has been long. Why keep the Muse silent? I am simply
overburdened with plots._”
When asked the cause of the breaks in the last story he said:
“_I find there are still a number of people who believe they know
better how to write my stories than I do._
“_This last time it was ‘Fiends.’ It is important you keep the door
closed by demanding you receive only the truth--for that prevents their
taking definite hold._”
About this time there appeared in the papers notices of moving pictures
made from the O. Henry stories. We asked him what he thought of them,
and his answer, concise as usual, was:
“_Foolish rehash of yesterday’s ignorance._”
In commenting on how few believed and how difficult it would be to find
a publisher, O. Henry answered:
“_My belief is you will have to do it yourself ultimately, if you
cannot find some one who is independent. The trouble is that in a
concern, one may believe, while the rest of the company do not yet
see._”
The conditions of everyday life became worse. We were able to snatch
only a few minutes with O. Henry and asked him if he felt the confusion.
“_It is a regular whirlpool_, he said; _the boat rocks. Until you can
have quiet I think it would be wiser to postpone trying to write. My
wish is added to yours, for if all disturbance is eliminated we can
then accomplish a great deal without effort._”
On New Year’s eve we received greetings from those with whom we had
been closely associated in work, and last of all came O. Henry. He said:
“_I do not belong, but I may come to the party, may I not?_
“_I am content to wait until it will be only a pleasure to hold
converse and when we can relax to a real confab._
“_They are good stories, if I do say it--but they cannot believe in a
leopard changing his spots. Out upon that spot!_
“_An amazing thing that the stolid English are more awake spiritually
than Americans, who have not yet been touched vitally. Some day
they will awake and arise--and I hope then I can take part in the
procession._
“_My greetings and all aid possible for the year to come._”
Several weeks later he said:
“_This is the first opportunity I have had to hold ‘mind’ with you._
“_Interesting expression that, when one realizes how true it is that
mind is the only real point of contact, although when on your plane we
speak only of the physical nearness of others._
“_Is it true that the hour is to be re-established? If that is the
case, we ought to turn out something worth while._”
On being told that the poem, “Sleeping,” which he had given us, was
to be read to the Poetry Society, it seemed to appeal to his sense of
humor, for he said:
“_If I was not to all appearances dead, that would be my death. I
shall have a fearful attack of stage-fright. I do hope they won’t call
‘Author!’_
“_I like this house. It is so restful and harmonious. It is a smiling
island of loveliness in a black sea of pitch. I shall stretch here at
ease tonight and rest and live happily._”
A. HOUGHTON PRATT.
“Over There”
_O. Henry’s Ghost Answers the Questions
of a Newspaper Man Regarding
“Over There”_
So he desires to know how we folks live?
Queer! the idea humanity hugs to its breast of how different life must
of necessity be over here.
Tell him that at present it is New York at its worst, on a day of
celebration,--with streets crowded, people pushing in all directions,
friends meeting, exchanging greetings and passing on. To us life is the
same, with the exception that now time is no longer a factor.
Our emotions are the same--until we learn the wisdom of eliminating all
unworthy ones.
Our desires the same--only now they are satisfied almost immediately.
We desire to eat and we have food. All is the same, only of finer
material, not so dense.
It is as if we were in airships above you--seeing all, comprehending
all, and yet unable to make you hear. To the few are given ears attuned
to hear and eyes which behold, but humanity as a whole is blind.
If you could by any method make the world realize that to us _here_
each and every THOUGHT affects us more poignantly than all the
sentences uttered and that we are uplifted and made joyous by each
thought of love sent out, _no matter to whom_, all hate would vanish
from the earth.
Clothing? Just the same as ever, only we are glad to discard the old
garments for new ones more beautiful, after we have been here for
a while, and when that desire comes, the material is at hand with
which to create new garments. Verily, over here thoughts become things
quickly.
There are those here who do not aspire for newer or better things, and
so they remain in their same condition.
Aspiration is the force here which pushes you on to better and greater
achievements.
Houses? Certainly we have them; each one to his liking, for he builds
it as he desires, with the aid of others; all lend helping hands over
here, and life becomes a proper mixture of work, play and study.
Yes, there are places where hate, envy and all the evils still hold
sway, and if those are the things which you enjoy, you dwell in that
locality.
Whatever you in your soul desire you receive. Ask and it is given
you; seek higher and you find; and it is truly to be said: “As a man
thinketh so he receives and is.”
Naturally, people of the world are going to say: “O. H. cannot write
from above--if what he says is true, he would be below.” Having spent
several years in Hell--on earth--after I arrived in this country I
was mighty glad to change my environment when I discovered where I
had been dwelling,--and that there was no need of remaining, unless I
wished,--so I gave notice to the landlord I was moving at once.
The earth is a pretty poor place when you make a hell out of it, and it
might be a heaven if we would only have faith, love and aspire.
The world is on a precipice and New York is tottering on the edge! Will
you wake up and save yourselves or will you once more be swept away by
the flood?
Foreword
“I wish to tell the world what is theirs for the asking.
“To try and give them a new viewpoint--in place of their erroneous
ideas.
“Before, I wrote what the Self saw only--now it is what _I know_.”
My Tussle with the Devil
It was the hour when souls simply cling to their bodies by the merest
thread--when I met His Satanic Majesty.
He is well named, for he is majestic in every sense of the
word--majestic of mien--majestic of gesture, of expression, and a god
to look upon.
He is a deceptive person, for one meeting him casually would think he
was one of the great and good men of the day--abroad on errands of
mercy and with kindness in his heart for all humanity. So carefully
does he conceal his identity that he resembles most of mankind--who are
one person to themselves and quite another to the world of men.
We met. He knew me, but I had not yet had the pleasure of knowing this
majestic lord--or thought I had not--and so was flattered when he
accosted me and made me welcome.
“I was told you were coming, and so came to meet you,” he said, with a
smile of geniality. “We hoped to have greeted you earlier.”
“Just a minute,” I said. “Who are you? Who told you I was coming?”
Making a sweeping gesture, and ignoring my questions, he continued:
“Our land is fair--as you see--but there are many wonders which I
desire to show you. Wonders which are unheard of--not even dreamt
of--and which will make you desire to remain among us, I feel
confident.”
With this, my arm was taken in friendly fashion, and we proceeded up an
avenue lined with trees perfect in form and foliage--passed handsome
houses, with playing fountains, flowers, and birds in abundance.
With a magnificent gesture he swept all this out of the way. “The
homes of our servants. We enter now the domains of those who rule and
where we hope you will abide.”
The turn of the street brought us to an estate situated on the crest
of a magnificent mountain. Winding roads of dazzling whiteness and
smoothness led through a garden of flowers and wonderful trees. Running
streams made music, and the song of birds--with brilliant plumage.
With no word spoken--but many implied by gesture and nod--we reached at
last the mansion. Transparent--the walls seemed--heavy the air, with
perfume. It was a palace of dreams--resting in the hollow of my hand.
With a smile of winning sweetness he said:
“This is yours. Will you rest?”
“Mine! For what?” I exclaimed. “Do you give palaces like this to all
your visitors?”
“Not to all,” he answered; “only to our favored ones.”
“Why am I so favored, then? What have I done to bring me this?”
“Nothing,” he answered, “_as yet_, but we have hopes of great things
from you. We expect you will be of great benefit to us; will aid us in
promoting our cause.”
“And how?” I queried.
“Come, let us sit and sup and we will talk it over.”
Leading me gently forward, we entered a banqueting hall, where costly
viands and sparkling wines reposed among flowers; and gold and silver,
and ruby and diamond, sapphire and emerald decked each goblet--while
behind our places were fair women, who smiled and breathed perfume upon
the air.
Too dazed to remonstrate, I took my place, and, unconscious of what I
did, sipped my wine from its jeweled goblet.
Lifting his wine, he said: “To our better acquaintance--our
Brotherhood, I hope.”
“To our better acquaintance, certainly--but what do you mean by
Brotherhood?”
“That I will explain. In this mountain fastness there is a secret
abode, which only the elect can enter, and where the members set in
motion great events and accomplish great deeds. We have need of one
like you to assist us.”
“What do you feel I can do?” I asked. “My talents are slight. I do not
comprehend my selection.”
“Ah! That is not to be wondered at--for you have not correctly gauged
your talents and ability.
“Do you realize that you have the greatest talent ever known--in one
direction?”
“What!” I gasped.
“Quite true! I will tell you.
“In the beginning you were presented, by lesser gods, with a talent
for love of everything, with love for the pure, for the true, for
the beautiful. You aspired to be one of the unknown workers for
humanity--to create beauty, in poem and song; to weave for them music
which would make life an ecstacy.
“To scatter happiness was your ambition. Jealousy was unknown to you,
and envy a word you never even thought of.
“Kindness was your pass-word in the realm from which you came--but
we, who were observing you, recognized a power much greater than you
knew--a power to work results magical in their effect--and so we came
near you and sought to make your better acquaintance.
“You were a shy bird, difficult to catch, however, and it took us many
eons of time before we finally won your confidence.”
“What was this great ability?” I interrupted.
“You wish to know? That is well, for I see we shall be able to work
more harmoniously if your interest is aroused,” he replied. “I will
tell you. It was--but why should I say ‘it was,’ rather, it is still,
the great gift you possess, and which we desire to have you give to us
in all its fullness. Let us review a bit what use you made of it.
“First, you were disappointed in the love of the woman whom you
desired, and so began its development--until love for man or woman had
no place in your heart.
“Then commenced your clear vision, which showed you the evil which was
in all minds and hearts, and you recognized no one could be trusted.
Ultimately, you nearly perfected that branch of your gift, and so had
an honored seat at our council table--and we desire you again to take
your place at its head.”
“But why?” I interrupted, “did I lose that exalted seat?”
“Alas!” he answered, “you went back to your old habits. An animal was
the cause of your downfall--a mongrel cur!”
“You interest me,” I said. “Explain how that occurred.”
“You were in a forsaken village--having lost your way and wandered
there--and without food. Little by little your strength left you, and
you lay down under a tree, with all hope abandoned. A rustle in the
dead grass aroused you, and presently a tiny, mangy dog crept up and
licked your hand.
“The relief from the loneliness was so great that you foolishly took
the cur in your arms.”
“Foolishly!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, foolishly; for that was the beginning of your loss of power.
True, the animal led you out to safety and warmth, eventually. But
_what_ a seed was sown!
“Where before the harvest was well-nigh perfect, it now had the weeds
of Pity and Gratitude---- _So_ do the mighty fall!
“That was a fatal sowing and reaping for you, for it even affected your
view of men. You commenced to see in them bits of character before
unseen. Such useless things as Consideration, Love and Pity!
“Your habits, too, were affected by this poisonous weed. Where before
you had been perfect in all ways vile, you now commenced to give up
some of the most brilliant jewels--betrayal of women--the excitement
and joy of perfect and exhilarating wines. Why! you even went so low as
to prefer sparkling waters from Nature’s sources.”
Holding my jeweled goblet high, I laughed and said: “To what depths can
man sink!”
“Ah! I rejoice to see you agree with me. It is well! We shall succeed
together admirably, I feel sure,” he made answer.
Then, drawing closer to me, “Now to our desires and agreement.”
“By all means,” I replied. “I am eager to hear your plan. For,
certainly, if this domain is part of the reward, it interests me.”
“Good! That is better,” he replied.
“When you first left our abode and joined with others, who had contrary
beliefs, we felt it was final--but as we watched and studied your
soul--for you know, of course, souls are clearly visible to us--and saw
there was within it, still, the desire to continue as one of us, I was
given the task of keeping alive that seed, and adding to its force, so
that in time a bountiful harvest might repay us.
“We feel that time has arrived.
“As I told you, this palace, with all it contains, its vault of
priceless gems--such as are on your goblet, these fair women, and
hundreds like them, are yours. Any honor you feel you desire shall be
granted, and you shall be the lord of whatsoever you desire to possess.”
At this I glanced around the hall. Looked at the smiling
faces--slender, voluptuous forms--at the sparkling gems--at the vista
which was spread before me through the open windows--and then I mused
upon what I could possess in addition--all honors whatsoever I desired.
Coming back, finally, to a study of His Majesty’s face, I found his
eyes fixed upon me.
“Will you accept?” he asked.
“That is a little mystery, too, of yours, is it not? You ask if I will
accept all that counts in the world, but you have not yet told me what
I am to do for it all. Tell me that side of the mystery,” I replied.
“Only a simple thing!
“Renew your association with us and take the leadership of the
band which is ready to go forth and sow broadcast the seeds which
are so much craved by the world. The seeds of Hate, of Malice, of
Licentiousness, of Cruelty.
“Help us to rid the world of gayety which is simple and wholesome. Help
us to give them a greater excitement. Let us arouse the idea of hunting
within their breasts--but children for game--not birds, which are only
beautiful and give song, that would be tame sport!
“Take the lead and aid us to sow Revenge broadcast.”
“Is that all?” I queried.
“All for the present,” he answered. “Later, new things can be brought
to successful issue, if you desire. But that will satisfy our
Brotherhood for the present.”
“Let us drink to our unity,” he said, raising high his glass and
looking with flashing eyes into mine.
I rose to my feet, goblet high.
“To our Brotherhood!” I shouted; “May it be annihilated forever!”
The Contest
_Yucatan--Time: Midnight_
Life met Death in the room of Joe, who lay on a bed in the corner, with
a pain-racked body.
Suspense as to the visitant made him almost unconscious, yet thoroughly
cognizant. It was as if some part of his brain stopped, while the rest
leaped away from the body--then, with a whirl which made him reel,
leaped back again.
Gazing at him from a chair which stood in front of the fire was a
softly clad woman. In her hands was myrtle and thyme, which made
mysterious shadows upon the wall.
His humble room seemed decorated by a master hand. Each individual
article took on a luster hitherto unknown.
With a movement, however, his eyes were brought back to the door,
through which a figure slowly entered. It was radiant with a light
which dazzled. Entering slowly, it stopped at the foot of his bed and
said, in a voice sweeter than any music ever heard.
“I am Death! Will you come with me to a Summerland where there is only
joy, and pain is unknown?”
“Death!” he gasped. “You, Death! But you do not look as I thought Death
did! You are beautiful!”
“Yes,” replied the figure, “I am the most beautiful of all, except one,
but my gifts are more beautiful than _all_.
“I bring surcease from trials, freedom from pain, shelter from all
storms and peace.
“I,--who am so much feared by mankind,--have only joy and happiness.
“Make ready and come with me! I promise you all you have ever longed
for--sunshine, flowers and beauty.”
Keeping his eyes riveted on the figure, Joe sat erect and said:
“How am I to know you are not fooling me? You don’t look like Death. I
don’t believe you!”
The figure smiled.
“That is not unusual,” it replied, “for men have a false idea of me.
They think I am old and hideous and take from them all they hold dear.
“They do not know I give them all they have earned and bring them the
solace of retrieving all past errors.
“I give them the opportunity of seeing how and why they failed.
“I watch their silly strivings for wealth, their many useless mansions,
their hates and loves--which are only envy in fancy dress--knowing the
time will come when they will be obliged to open the door to me.
“Some welcome me, for they have built their mansion and know it only
awaits their coming; that joy and happiness are theirs--love, free from
all malice, and beauty in every form.
“They welcome me, because they have built their home on rock and it
stands with door open to receive them, and they are not afraid, but
rejoice.
“Others, however, fear me and refuse to look at me, saying, ‘You are
ugly! Go away!’ And they shut their ears and refuse to be comforted.
“They are afraid, for they have no mansion to which to go, but are
homeless and feel that they are outcasts. Why? Not because of me,
but because they have forgotten to prepare their mansion and so are
homeless and beggars. They cling to worn-out trumpery, keeping much
more from them than they possess.
“Give up this mansion of yours and come and follow me to new fields
which are filled to overflowing.”
Joe still stared, too much overcome to reply, when from the chair by
the fire a figure arose.
It was clad in soft clinging garments, with a veil which hid the face,
and the voice was deep and harsh, with an undertone of sadness.
“Wait! Not yet can he give you his answer. He must choose between us.”
At this Joe turned his eyes toward the new speaker, and seemed to find
once again the ability to speak.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Life!” the figure replied. “Life! With all its dreams, its passions,
its joys. Life! which has given you all your pain and misery. Life!
which has snatched from you all your youth, your joy, and given you
only disillusionment!
“Life! which promised you happiness, health, wealth, fame!
“Life! which dances and sings and has no need for tomorrow. Will you
stay with me? See! I hold out to you healing herbs that will bring
forgetfulness and give you power to go on and achieve what you desire.
“See! I offer you fame!
“You shall be able to sit above others,--to cast them forth, to spit
upon them. You shall be lord of the cities. Fairest women shall smile
and caress you; men shall sue you for recognition. Will you stay?”
Joe made a motion of assent.
There was a moment’s stillness, then, with a laugh which froze his
blood, Life said:
“Again I win, and your beauty and your gifts are spurned, Death! Again
I win.”
Death smiled and said: “I am content. Show him your face!”
At this command the figure began to unwind from the head the drapery
which had enveloped it, and Joe, with staring eyes, looked into a
hollow shell, a skeleton!
[Illustration]
Sleeping
Gangs
In suits of gray
Worked upon the highway
In a Southern State.
Stones
Were their companions,
Coarse food
Their nourishment.
Cruelty
Met often with Greed
And Fear
Lived with Hatred,
When Love
Sought entrance
On a night
In June,
Trying
All the entrances
Unavailingly,
And tiring at last.
Kindness came
And whispering
In Love’s ear
Said:
“Down the road
You will find open several houses.
Better go!
I will watch here.”
Love
Gave thanks,
And with bounding steps
Went gayly to the Highway.
The sun
Was hot
And the stones were sharp,
But the time for rest was near,
And a little ripple
Was running along the highway,--
A tiny little wave
Of Joy.
Love
Seeing this,
Danced with glee
And began to sing:
“Come with me
Where the flowers bloom
And birds make music
All the noon.
“Sunshine
Dances,
Girls give glances
To the moon.
“Friends
Take chances,
Gay their fancies,
Come with me.”
Startled
Glances went down the line,
And Love swept on
To the end,
Seeking
Entrance in each heart
And sending thrills
With delight,
Until
To each one
Passed the word
“Love is here!”
Backs
Grew straighter,
Faces brighter,
Down the line.
God
Crept nearer
Saying:
“Come with me!
Take
No chances
With the sleepers--
Come with me!”
And down
The highway
Swept the summons,
“Come with me!”
Gray garments
Changed
To gold,
And only
Hatred
And Fear
Were left uncalled
From their sleep.
[Illustration]
Yearning
The lamps on the street throw fitful shadows upon the pavements, which
glisten with many raindrops.
Walking slowly, with bent shoulders and bowed head, is a man with
slightly graying hair. Round and round the square he walks, glancing
neither to the right nor left, until finally, wearying, he crosses the
street and enters a house where the curtains are closely drawn.
Bits of smilax, rose leaves and trodden violets can be seen about the
steps, and as he opens the door, the air is charged with escaping
perfume.
With a hasty glance at the heavy draperies which conceal the opening to
_the_ room, he mounts hurriedly the stairs, and with trembling hands
turns the knob of a door.
Gently he pushes it wide, and the soft gleam of the lamp plays upon the
silken draperies of a woman’s room.
No sound breaks the stillness as the man closes the door and with a
heartbroken cry throws himself upon his knees by the bedside.
His frame shakes from head to foot as his arms are thrown across the
bed which had so recently held all his world.
At last, worn out by the battle, his body relaxes, and released from
its leash, the spirit meets the occupant of the room.
Clasped in his arms, with gentle, loving fingers she strokes his face
and says:
“I am still here with you--always, as you are now with me.”
His clasp tightens as he sobs:
“I thought that you were dead--that you had left me.”
“Loving you, how could I leave you?” she answered. “And there is no
such thing as death! One only changes!
“I am just as you are now; and as we have been each night we have gone
out together. The only change is that during a few hours you go back to
the world of business, while I wait for you in the land of art.
“Dry your eyes, beloved, for when you weep, you keep me from creating
the beautiful things we have longed for. All the material is here at my
hand, but I must be free to work.
“The clocks of the city are striking the hour for you to begin your
work and for me also. Go now! And tonight we will tell each other of
what we have accomplished.”
The striking of the hour breaks the stillness of the room, and the man
by the bedside stirs and then gazes with unseeing eyes at the empty bed
and the room with its softly glowing lamp.
A well-remembered perfume floats upon the air and his hair is brushed
as by a fairy wind.
With arms outstretched, he rises to his feet.
“Tell me it is true! That, if it was a dream, that dreams are the truth
of life! Give me some sign that I may know, my darling. I must know! I
must! Give me some little sign!”
As he gazes at the curtain which conceals the doorway, there is a faint
rustle of silken drapery, and a shadow seems upon it for just a moment.
The lamp burns low, the man sits motionless.
“Was it true? Was it a sign, or was it only a movement by the wind?”
II.
Seated on the sidewalk, crying bitterly, is a small boy, holding in his
arms a dog.
The grief of the child attracts a passer-by, who questions:
“What is the trouble, little man?”
Between sobs, the child explains that he missed his pet and found it in
the road.
“He didn’t come when I called. He always minds. And now he doesn’t tell
me anything! Why doesn’t he?”
“Let me see, little man,” says the stranger, and stoops to take the
dog, which the boy clasps more tightly.
Putting his hand on the child’s head: “Poor little man! I am sorry, but
your little friend will never do any of those things again, for he is
dead.”
With a cry of joy the child jumps up, and says:
“Is that it? Well, that’s all right; for now he will always stay where
I am.”
With a quick gesture the man put out his hand and caught the child.
“What do you mean by that? Why are you happy, now, when I tell you he
is dead?”
Gazing upward at the man’s face, the child answers:
“Why! Mother told me so. She says there is no death--there only is
another life--and when we love any one very much they never leave us.
“She says that when it’s daylight we cannot see them because they are so
beautiful, but that at night we can, when we go to sleep--and that’s
our real life--when we think we are only sleeping.”
The man clutched at the child almost wildly.
“You believe that, little man?”
“Of course! It’s true! Now, I must take Fido to mother, for she
knows what to do to make him beautiful--and then tonight we’ll play
hide-and-seek, as we were going to this morning.”
With a happy and joyous “good-bye” ringing in his ears, the man gazed
at the little figure flying down the street.
“I wonder! Yes! It was a sign, for is it not said--‘A little child
shall lead them!’”
[Illustration]
Animals
My wish is to widen the horizon.
It is important for humanity to _know_.
It must recognize the oneness of
everything.
We will write of more than man.
I will give a series: First--Beasts;
then, Flowers and Jewels.
Weariness
I.--THE KING
Pacing forward--backward--backward--forward, to and fro--a King.
With world weary eyes he gazes out of his window in search of his
soul’s desire.
Before him a seething mass of heads, with eyes riveted upon him.
Immovable, he stands and contemplates them.
Of what do they think?
Have they souls which long and cry out, day and night, for liberty?
Or are they satisfied with the narrow ring in which they move?
Do they know the joy of freedom: of vast expanses?
A surge of hatred passes through him and he has a longing to slay that
sodden mass. Then it passes, and with a weary movement once more he
paces to and fro.
Of what does _he_ think?
Does he know that once again has been enacted an old drama and a King
sold into captivity, or does he feel that it should be said:
“Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
II. THE TOILER
Up--down--down--up--from early morn.
Up--down--with slow and steady strides, until the rich brown earth
holds up eager hands to receive its gifts.
Up--down--down--up--wearily plods the Toiler until the sun is high,
when, with a long-drawn sigh, the time of rest is welcomed.
A bit of shade, a refreshing drink, and a little rest before the weary
round begins again.
Up--down--down--up--day in and out.
“‘Monotonous,’ you say? Yes! if only the thought of the weary rounds
is held. Compensation comes from a pat on the neck, which tells of
appreciation and affection and the knowledge of being a necessary part
of the whole. The harvest _I_ sow is reaped and lessens in other lands
the harvest of the Reaper.
“Up--down--down--up, with a stronger pull, for I am doing my bit, and
“‘To him who is faithful in small things much shall be given.’”
The Slave
I.
Near the door sits an impressive looking man.
“It is growing dark, mademoiselle; just turn up the light.”
The interior is flooded with light at this command.
In a far corner lies a spaniel, gazing with pain-stricken eyes at the
man. He is too worn in spirit to do more than give a feeble move, now
and then, to first one ear and then another. But worn and spent as he
is, his eyes are alert for movement on the part of the man, and as the
man rises from his chair, the dog utters a faint cry of fear and begins
to shake; but his trembling gradually ceases as the man goes in the
opposite direction, and he closes his eyes in complete weariness.
Each moment has seemed hours to him, for fear has dragged at his soul.
What new torture awaited him when that huge form moved--to what unknown
horror was he to be compelled to submit?
Helpless--chained--and too weak to fight, he was at the mercy of THAT,
which sat in front of him.
_It_ looked like his beloved master in form, but the voice was
different and the touch----
At the thought of the hand which had caressed him only two days, or was
it two years ago, he gave a little whimper, which was quickly stifled
as he recalled that the slightest move on his part brought that which
gave him only misery--pulling, testing, delicate nerves pressed, and
pain indescribable.
Silence reigns, and at last, worn out, he closes his eyes and sleeps.
Once more he is in a room where sparkles a glowing fire, and, with
ears alert, listens for a well-known step. Joy permeates him as it
comes nearer and nearer, and then the door opens.
With a waving of banner and joyous greeting he leaps to meet a caress
and welcome:
“Well, old boy! Glad to see me? Bring me my slippers. There’s a good
fellow.”
The joy of taking some part of that dear one close to him and carrying
it where he knew it belonged! The excitement of returning and hearing
“Right you are, old boy! now the other,” and then the delicious sense
of work well done and the praise earned, and the happiness and joy of
the hand on his head, while both relaxed to the warmth of the fire.
A sudden pang of pain rouses him, and the remembrance is shattered and
dismay takes its place.
What has happened? All he can recall is standing on the doorstep,
waiting for that promised walk, and suddenly a jerk, and he is flying
through the air and is thrust into a black and yelling mass of his
brothers.
Then a brilliantly lighted place and a gruff voice, which says:
“That’s the one. He’s a thoroughbred. Bring him.”
Running, darting this way, that way, snapping at his brothers who bar
his escape, he dashes here, there, everywhere, looking in vain for an
outlet, only to be cornered at last, with the same kind of a jerk which
had torn him away from his doorstep.
“Put up a fight, didn’t he? The experiment will be all the more
interesting now, for the nerves are excited.”
Then, straps and buckles which held him down, and cruel wires which
prevented his breathing, and then THAT which was at the back of the
room, standing over him with shining things, and then such pain as made
him forget all things as he sank down--and down--and down!
With a start, he realizes there has been a movement in the room, and a
shadow looms toward him. In vain to shrink--to avoid that hand which
will soon be upon him, for he is chained and unable to move.
What new terror awaits him?
His heart beats to suffocation and his eyes seek dumbly for aid.
Nearer and nearer comes the shadow, and he abandons all hope, and with
a cry of despair his body relaxes, as a figure looms over him.
Again the firelit room and a loved voice:
“Come, boy! Let’s to bed and sleep.”
With a mighty struggle he forces the spirit to rise, and once more
opens his eyes, to find the fire light vanished and the loved voice
silent--only a looming doom with shining things over him, and a voice,
angry with thwarted ambition.
“Too late! He’s dead.”
But a spark of the spirit still lingers in the body, and the faithful
eyes see a firelit room and a beloved form, and with a farewell wave of
his banner, obeys the command:
“Let’s sleep!”
FREEDOM
II.
Worn and weary, a man enters a room where a fire burns upon the hearth.
Throwing himself into a chair, he glances at the vacant rug at his
feet, and, with a sob in his voice, says:
“Old Boy! No slippers for me tonight by my old faithful.”
No sound breaks the stillness, and he gazes forelornly towards his room.
Then he sits erect--rigid, for through the door comes a dearly loved
figure, head high and banner waving in anticipation of “Well done,
good and faithful servant,” and love shining in his eyes, and in his
mouth--a slipper!
With suspended breath the man watches, and even at the touch of cold
nose upon his hand, remains rigid. Then, with a cry, he throws out his
arms to encircle his comrade--only empty air greets him.
But at his feet lies--a slipper!
In stupefaction he looks at it, and then around the room.
Nothing!
Nothing? No! surely something is still in the familiar place--something
which is faithful always and remains where love keeps the place!
A light of understanding breaks over the man’s face as he takes the
slipper.
“Oh! ye of little faith!”
Flowers
Missionaries
I.
Just outside of a walled city there is a field of white--little,
delicate, slim emissaries of peace, wafting their messages of healing
broadcast. With a ringing of delicate musical bells, they say: “Come
with me! Here is joy and peace.”
Within the walls a lonely watcher in a tower looks and listens.