CHAPTER I.--"And to Every Seed His Own Body."

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VOICES

BIRTH-MARKS

THE MAN AND THE ELEPHANT

MATT J. HOLT

_Author of Chit-Chat, Nirvana_

LOUISVILLE

THE STANDARD PRINTING CO., Inc.

1922

Copyrighted 1922

by The Author

INDEX

- VOICES ......................................................... 7

- BIRTH-MARKS .................................................... 71

- THE MAN AND THE ELEPHANT ....................................... 341

VOICES

Knowest thou only the language of man?

Hast never heard the plaintive flute of Pan,

Or those gladsome carols that greet the light?

Or the wild, strange voices of darkest night?

Each of earth's creatures when at work or play,

Each of nature's force in some strange way,

Has a manner of attaining to God's ear,

And a voice which those attuned may hear.

Voices of spring are love songs of the birds,

Fragrant poems of lilacs, lacking words;

Summer voices are of riper, mellower strain;

Autumn's, sing of harvest and life not vain;

Winter tells the story of what has been,

Season of reflection, of the voice within,

Promise of tomorrow, freedom from sin.

Big Creek bisects the narrow valley and the road to Hyden follows the

bank, crossing from side to side as the sheerness of the mountain side

makes necessary. Here and there the valley broadens until there is

almost enough level land for a farm; and always where there is a little

width of valley you find a mountain home. The mountain tops and sides

are great wildernesses, though sometimes in a cove or on the plateau a

hermit or outcast family makes its home.

At old man Litman's place the valley is quite narrow, except below the

"Rock House," where there is an old field cleared by his grandfather,

who came from Virginia in 1795. A sprawling rail fence, hedged about by

thrifty bush growth, encircles the old field; pawpaw bushes growing in

the fence corners encroach to the ruts of the road; and each year new

growth of sumac and persimmon appropriate yet more of the old field;

which having been cultivated for near a century and grown unproductive,

is given over to a volunteer crop of broom sedge, which furnishes meager

pasturage for an old mule and two cows.

On the edge of the road at the fence corner nearest the cabin, Litman's

granddaughter has a doll house; if mere tracings of pebbles and shells

gathered from the creek shallows can be called partitions and the bushes

and vines, walls and a roof. The white room is traced in white pebbles

the red room in red pebbles and the kitchen in the commoner blue ones.

The furnishings are bits of broken crockery, glass and shell. The dolls

are small bleached bones or bits of peeled pawpaw sticks, dressed in

blouses made from a worn out sleeve of grandpa's red undershirt and

skirts from scraps of worn and faded calico. She has never seen a doll

house, never a real doll, only pictures. This, her creation, was

suggested by instinctive motherhood and love for home.

A passing traveler would have thought several children were playing at

the fence corner. The little make-believe mother was talking to her

babies and answering for them in even thinner and more subdued voice

than her own; though she had the low voice of a child accustomed to play

alone.

"Now Jeanne, let's make grandpa some nice pone bread; the meal is fresh

and sweet. When it is ready you run to the spring and bring him a cup of

cold milk."

"Granny, while you are mixing the bread maybe I can find an egg in the

loft. I heard Old Speck cackling."

"There is grandpa calling, I will go and see what he wants."

"He says, would you mind moving him a wee bit? His bones shore do ache."

Here the dialogue ended, the girl's attention having been caught by the

voice of an old friend; except for which the valley had the quietude not

alone of a warm mid-afternoon but of a great solitude, so profound that

you might even fancy hearing the smoke curling up from the chimney of

the cabin, a hundred yards away. Yet, if you listen you may hear the

chirping of the grass creatures and the rippling water washing along the

pebbly bed of the creek.

A lone tree, long dead, and bleached to bony whiteness, stands in the

center of the old field and from its topmost snag a lark gives voice to

a series of pensive, dreamy, flute-like notes. The girl, after listening

for some time, resumes the dialogue.

"Children, we will climb on the fence and hear what Yellow Vest has to

say. I think he is whistling to his wife, who hunts crickets in the

broom sedge."

"Maw, tell us what he says?"

"'Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee! and

babies.' It is not so much what he says as the way in which he says it."

The feeble voice of the old grandmother calls: "Jeanne, come help your

granny;" and placing her dolls in their little beds of sticks, moss and

bird feathers, and the little baby in its cradle, the half of a mussel

shell, she goes to the house.

----

John Morgan Allen lived in Lexington, Kentucky. His father was a lawyer

of considerable prominence; his mother, a Morgan, granddaughter of a

distinguished soldier; his grandmother was the daughter of John Calvin

Campbell, an eloquent pioneer preacher; her husband, a lawyer when she

married him, afterwards became a professional gambler and, an exception

to the rule, accumulated a considerable fortune.

It was young Allen's mother's desire that he should be a soldier; his

father's that he should be a lawyer, and his grandmother's that he

should be a preacher. When he finished high school, his mother

insisting, he was sent to Culver Military Institute, where he remained a

year. Then his grandmother, having promised to give him $25,000.00 the

day he should graduate at the Louisville Presbyterian Theological

Seminary; he was sent to that institution. In the beginning of his

senior year she died intestate, leaving an estate of only $60,000.00 to

be divided between three living children and the heirs of three dead

children. As there was no chance of the fulfillment of her promise when

he should graduate at the seminary; and his conduct had been such that

his professors had suggested a reformation in conformity with his

prospective calling, he wrote asking his father's consent to leave the

seminary and take the law course at the University of Virginia; and he

cheerfully consented. In spite of the fact that he gave much of his time

to a local military company and enjoyed the reputation of being the best

poker player at the university, he graduated with class honors in 1912.

Several weeks after his return home, on his twenty-second birthday, his

father took him to the office and with great gladness in his heart,

pointed to the name, Allen & Allen, which had been painted on the office

door the day before; showed him the new embossed stationery on which his

name appeared as a member of the firm; and his own room, newly painted,

carpeted and furnished, with the name John Morgan Allen (Private) on the

door. Though John's face wore a smile of appreciation, it was merely

reflective of his father's love and enjoyment; disposition and

temperament suggested rebellion, but were overcome by a sense of

gratitude and duty.

In the early summer of 1913 the firm were employed by the Lockard heirs

to clear the title to a large boundary of land in Leslie county; and it

became necessary for John and the executor to go to Hyden for that

purpose.

Just at sundown as they were riding by Litman's old field, John's horse

shied and backed through the pawpaw bushes into Jeanne's doll house. He

dismounted and patched the partition walls into shape; then parting the

bushes, showed it to Mr. Lockard.

To John, the little bone and stick dolls, dressed in rags and resting in

their beds of moss and feathers were pathetic. He picked several up, and

was examining them when a slender girl of twelve, in an outgrown, worn

and faded dress, which did not reach to her knees, ran up crying: "Do

not hurt my babies." John rose hastily, somewhat disconcerted by the

accusation, and lifting his hat and gravely bowing, assured her he had

no such intention; whereupon without uttering another word, she turned

and ran into the Litman cabin.

The cabin, built in the days when the family was relatively prosperous,

had a spare room for visitors. As it was now sundown the men asked and

were given shelter for the night.

Jeanne showed them where their horses were to be stabled; and then went

into the house to help with supper. Her grandmother noted that she was

very exact in setting the table; getting out the only white cloth they

had and doing her best with their meager stock of china to make it

attractive. This special attention was due to the lifted hat and formal

bow with which John had greeted the child. It was the first time a man

had ever tipped his hat to her.

After supper John and Mr. Lockard seated themselves for a smoke on a

great rock that jutted into the creek and enjoyed not only the profound

repose but the mystic beauty of the scene, which was accentuated by the

light of a full moon and the deep shadows made by the trees and

mountain.

John, a person of moods and imagination--possibly due to his complex

ancestry--gave expression to his thoughts: "How soothing, how

delightfully peaceful, how homelike, is this humble home. There is no

place here for sorrow and tears, no room for envy, no cause for

covetousness or discontent. Some people, and I believe I am one, might

be happy here, happier than in a city, just getting his part of the

sunlight, just breathing his part of this untainted air."

While he was talking in this strain, Jeanne, coming up, stood listening;

and when he had finished said:

"We have our troubles. You have not seen grandpa. He's sick in bed. He

can't move except his hands and head and they shake all the time. He

says he is a corpse with a chill and lies in his bed with nothing to do

but wait. When I ask 'Wait for what?' He answers, 'Tomorrow.' To me

tomorrow is like today. The cows will go to pasture, the creek will run

over the same pebbles, the mail man will come at noon and stop for

dinner, the lark will sing the same song; but if I stump my toe it will

be well tomorrow. Go in and talk to grandpa. He likes to hear things. He

lies on his bed until his bones ache. He looks out at the same trees and

rocks and the same reach of the creek. I hope when he sleeps there is a

change and he has dreams like mine and hears voices sweeter than those

of the day; though I love the voice of the lark and the red bird and the

wren; the murmur of the water on the rocks and most of all the little

creatures we do not see and will not hear, unless we are very still.

They are hidden in the grass and in the rocks. Alone not one of them can

be heard, but together they make soft music, a chorus of glad hearts.

One little blackbird makes a noise, but when a thousand speak at once it

makes a song. So it seems to me, if I should live here always, with just

grandpa and granny, what I said would be as the chirp of one little bug

or the call of a lost blackbird; but if I chirp or call out with a

thousand, my voice is the thousandth part of a song."

"Jeanne, we will go in and talk with your grandpa. Can he read, or do

you read to him?"

"He used to read before he broke his specks. I am trying hard to learn

to read good, so I can read to him. The teacher sometimes boards with

us; she says I will soon know how. It will be nice then. I try to read

his Bible to him but the words are too big. Teacher says I need a book

to tell me the meaning of big words. I know just the part of the Bible

he loves and I am learning it by heart. I stand and say it to him,

looking in the book and he thinks I read it."

"What do you say to him, Jeanne?"

"'And God shall wipe all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no

more death; neither sorrow nor dying; neither shall there be any more

pain.' And I know all of the fourteenth chapter of John, which tells us

not to let our troubles worry us, because in the Father's house there is

a home of many rooms and one is for me. And when I say, 'Peace I leave

with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto

you;' he makes me read it again. * *"

They went in and spent an hour with the old man. Seeing them was a break

in his bedridden monotony, shifting scene and introducing new

characters.

His had been a calm, relatively happy life until he was seventy years of

age; then misfortune overwhelmed him. He lost his savings; his son,

Sylvester, Jeanne's father, died; a few weeks later he had a stroke of

apoplexy and now a shivering palsy possessed his limbs. For more than

five years he had lain in his bed, nursed by wife and granddaughter.

His wife by most rigid economy had managed to feed the family of three;

though they were poorly clad and were frequently denied many things

deemed essential to life.

----

Simeon Blair for ten years had been carrying the mail from the mouth of

Big Creek to Hyden, going up one day and returning the next. He usually

ate his noon-day meal at Litman's, which he called the "Half-way House."

About ten days after Mr. Allen and his client had spent the night at the

Litman cabin, Blair rode up on his old gray mare and seeing Jeanne

coming from the spring, took from a gunny sack a parcel post package

about a foot square; and holding it above his head called out: "Guess

whose this is?"

"Grandpa's."

He shook his head, saying: "Guess again."

"Granny's."

"Wrong, guess again."

"Is it for us?"

"Yes."

"Then it must be for me; but I have never had anything before. It is not

Christmas. O! who could have sent it?"

She took it with timid joy and examined it carefully, reading aloud in a

halting way--"Miss Jeanne--no it's not Jeanne; what is it Simeon?"

"Jeannette."

"Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Leslie County, Ky."

And in the upper left-hand corner--

"From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky."

"Open it, let's see what's inside."

"Not till grandpa wakes up."

She went to his door, he was awake; so she called her grandmother and

Simeon.

"Look, grandpa, see what's come by mail. Listen: 'Miss Jeannette Litman,

Big Creek, Leslie County, Kentucky. From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky.'

What can it be?"

"Open it and find out."

"Simeon, you untie the string."

"Cut it, it's dinner time."

(Granny) "No, it's a piece of good whip-cord, undo the knot."

"Well, Miss Jeannette Litman, there it is."

"Can you see, grandpa?"

"Yes, dear."

"Watch close--O! this is for you, grandpa. See your name? Shall I open

it?--Some silver specks, in a bright new case. Now I know why he asked

me for the broken ones."

"Look! Look! this has granny's name on it, what can it be?"

"You open it, dear."

"No, granny, you must open your own bundle."

"Just what I wanted. I remember saying that when I went to Hyden I would

have to buy a pair of shears and a black shawl with the money we got for

the goose feathers. Now we can get a sack of flour and goods for

Jeanne's dress."

"It is my turn now, 'For Jeannette Litman,' such purty shoes; how did he

know my size? O! he had me step in the dusty road and then he measured

the track, saying a fairy had passed this way; and here is a little blue

silk handkerchief and two books. What does this spell, Simeon?

_University Dictionary_? What is a dictionary?"

"A book that tells what big words mean."

"Here is the other book, 'The Little Colonel at Boarding School;' and

here's more, two boxes--dolls! real dolls! all dressed and asleep in

their best clothes, shoes and real hair. O, you beautiful things! You

sweet darlings! Look granny! the top dress is just like spider web with

dew on it. We will name this one after you, granny. I bet you was as

purty when you were a little girl. This is Jane Wilson and the other I

will call Ruth, Ruth Dixon, after mother."

Jeanne insisted on writing the letter thanking Mr. Allen for the gifts;

and it was a momentous undertaking. Simeon brought a stamp, envelope and

two sheets of paper in a thread box from the general store at the mouth

of Big Creek. There was a pen and ink in the house, though it was

necessary to dilute the ink before using it.

At a loss as to how to address the envelope and commence her letter, she

consulted her grandmother; but would hear no other suggestions. At the

end of the second day's series of efforts on her slate she was

sufficiently satisfied to transcribe what she had printed to paper. In

her many attempts to find out how to spell certain words she discovered

that the new dictionary was marvelously arranged in alphabetical order,

and in possession of this key, finally mastered it.

In searching through the dictionary by chance she came upon the word

correspondence and learned its meaning. The word had caught her eye,

because among their few books, all of which had belonged to her great

grandfather, there was a set in old sheep binding of "Jefferson's

Correspondence." She took down Volume IV; and opening it at letter

CXXVIII, was better pleased with the style of address, in writing a

person of Mr. Allen's greatness; and concerning such matters of

importance, than the one her grandmother had given her and adopted it.

So she began tediously to print:

"To John Allen.

"Dear Sir:

"The simultaneous movements in our correspondence have been remarkable

on several occasions. It would seem as if the state of the air, or the

state of the times, or some other unknown cause, produced a sympathetic

effect in our mutual recollections. i has to say grandpas specks was the

first thing we found in the box. you know i could a got along with them

bone dolls dressed in his old red shirt but times would a been hard

outen them specks he lays on the bed with a chair under his head and

reads his bible now when onct he had to wait tell i had time he says now

the windows are open. how did you come to send granny a black shawl you

had not seen her shake with the cold like I has done. my feet is tuf i

could a done outen the shoes but she jest had ter have the shawl and the

shears. i know now why you had me step in the dust. granny says men are

sly and gals must be shy but why dident you jest say Jeannette let me

see your feet i keeps them purty clean.

"o the dolls the purty dolls they is too fine for the fence corner so i

puts them in bed with me and holds them when i says my prayers and sees

them in my dreams. they left the words tuf and purty and outen outen the

dictionary you tell the man what made it i am shore he will hate it he

says ter means three ter with us means same as to. i knows now what

correspondence, dictionary and Colonel mean. i spect when i read the

book ter find out why they calls a gal a little Colonel but i cant say

now. give me time. granny says i is set in my ways like grandpa and i is

set ter learn

"correspondence is nice but hard work but let us correspondence. last

year when Christmas come i had roast chestnuts and to red apples. granny

told me a tale about santaclaws i think you is it. the paper is all

gone. i must stop

"I salute you with all affection. T. J. whats the T. J. fer. i found it

at the end of a letter in Jefferson's Correspondence truly Jeannette i

say that is my name sense you writ it

T. J."

When Mr. Allen received the letter he was as proud of it as if it had

been written him by the recently inaugurated Democratic president. He

showed it to several of his girl friends, including Miss Bradley, who

insisted upon keeping it, saying she wished to send some little presents

the following Christmas.

At that time he felt the world would have been a barren waste except for

that young lady. The letter passed into her possession; was kept for

several weeks and then forgotten and misplaced. Memory of the little

mountain girl passed from her mind long before Christmas. John

remembered her, merely as one might a visit from a dream fairy.

An hour before John awoke on Christmas morning his mother came to his

room and placing a chair near his bed, piled upon it his Christmas

presents. There was a check from his father, handkerchiefs, neckties,

gloves, a smoking jacket and even a stocking full of nuts and candies

from his mother--he was her only child; still her little boy. There were

several small remembrances from relatives and friends, a box of cigars

from Miss Bradley; and beneath all a parcel in brown wrapping paper and

unadorned by either Christmas seal, holly or ribbon.

The breakfast gong sounded; it scarcely disturbed his dreams. Then the

house boy came to his room and shook him saying: "Mars John, it's near

nine er'clock, your maw says git up. Christmas gift!"

"Christmas morning and a fine day, cool, clear, a white Christmas!

Sammy, you caught me, didn't you? I will give you my last winter's

overcoat; it's as good as new, or three one dollar bills; which shall it

be?"

"Boss, that's a mighty fine overcoat, but I's got ter git that yaller

gal Melinda something, I guess I better take them three dollars."

"Well, here it is, Sammy."

Sammy went down the stairs muttering: "This hayr nigger ain't no fool,

not yit! Unless I gits drunk and loses this place, I'll git that

overcoat for a New Year's gift."

John, slipping on the new smoking jacket, sat on the edge of the bed and

with the pleased curiosity of a boy of twelve inspected his presents.

"Well Pip (meaning his father) must be feeling good this Christmas; his

check will come in handy. What nice things mother buys; she's always

thinking of my comfort. Perfectos from Sally Bradley and strong black

ones; she should know by now I don't like that brand. That's the cigar

that Jelly Bean Stoll smokes. He's been there quite a bit lately. I bet

she sent the brand I like to him; got things mixed up. Oh! what a

beautiful cigar case, and from Fannie Scott! She's the hot stuff! That

girl has some taste! She gets better looking every day. I'll go to see

her tomorrow night; but I really should go to Sally's. Hello! here's a

beefsteak or ten pounds of nails; it looks like it just came from the

butcher shop or the hardware store. No, it's from Big Creek! Where's Big

Creek? Oh, I remember that little girl, all legs and arms. She looked

like a mosquito and talked like a preacher. Well! Well! Well! mittens

and yarn socks; the first I have seen in ten years, and a letter.

----

"Big Creek, Kentucky.

"December 18th, 1914.

"John M. Allen, Esq.

"Dear Friend:

"It is seven months today since you were here and I have grown a lot. My

birthday was last month, November 7th. I am now thirteen. Miss Smith,

the teacher, says: 'Jeannette at last you know how to write a letter. No

wonder, you have spent half your time trying.' The dictionary is nearly

worn out. I look up every word.

"Last summer I hunted 'Sang' on the mountain for three days and when

granny went to Hyden to sell the feathers, the eggs and a basket of

chickens, she sold it and the store man gave her 1 dollar and 60 cents,

all mine.

"Hi Lewis lives up the creek. He has some sheep and I bought 2 pounds of

wool from him with part of my money. I washed the wool until it was as

white as the whiskers of Santa Clans then I spun it into yarn on

granny's spinning wheel and gave Sim Blair the mail man two bit to buy

me some red and blue dyes and some I made red and some blue. With the

blue I made granny some mits and grandpa some socks but I kept the red

for your Christmas gift and last night I finished it.

"I hope you will like your red mittens and red and black socks. They are

just as purty as the red bird that roosts in the cedar trees near the

barn. Granny said most of the men in the blue grass wore black socks but

I said they is not nice enough for you, so to please everybody I made

them red with black toes and tops. Maybe my gay little soldier of the

cedar trees was the cause I made them red and black. He has so much to

whistle about even when it is cold and the snow is deep. Just now he lit

on the window sill, knocking off the snow. I had a good look into his

bright black face. How purty and red his coat was against the snow. If

it was not for him and my dolls and the books you gave me I would be

lonesome. Granny says I am too old to play with dolls; but she does not

know what they whisper to me.

"How still it is in the winter time. By day we hear the red bird and the

crows; at night if it storms, the wind; if it is still and snowing, the

murmur of the flakes; if the moon is full a great owl calls; if I wake

in the night and it is dark and still I hear the whispers of either the

angels or of my dolls who sleep with me. One of the dolls is granny and

the other is my mother, and they tell me what they used to do when they

were girls like me. Sometimes grandpa calls and when I go to him he

asks: 'Did you hear that?' 'What, grandpa?' 'Someone calling, it sounded

like your pa.' Grandma says he is going to die soon. I believe up here

we hear voices you cannot hear where there is so much noise.

"I know Santa Claus will bring you nice things because you are so good.

"Yours truly,

"Jeanette."

"Well, it is nice to be remembered, even though the remembrance is

impossible. I will put them and the letter away with other treasured and

impractical things that have been sent me by girl friends. I feel sorry

for that lonesome little half-starved thing. She will grow up into a

scrawny, tired-looking woman; marry some man who will work her to death.

No telling what she might do with advantages and in another

environment."

After breakfast, he telephoned a book store asking that a dictionary and

some appropriate books be sent to Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek,

Kentucky. The clerk who took the order, having recently read Mark

Twain's Joan of Arc, mailed a copy of that book with the dictionary.

A week later Mr. Allen received a letter from Jeannette thanking him for

the books.

----

Verona, Italy.

------ Hospital, Ward 11.

December 2, 1917.

Dear Little Jeannette:

To children like you nothing is unexpected. You believe witches are

abroad on dark nights, while fairies dance in the moonlight; and that

angels protect you from evil spirits.

When you grow older experience plucks these pinions of fancy; you can no

longer soar but become an earth stained materialist, surprised if your

plans of the morrow miscarry and you find yourself in New York when you

expected to be in Washington.

A year ago today I was defending a suit against the Lexington Railway

Company; had become reconciled to law and expected to continue in that

comparatively thrill-less profession. I might have thought by now I

would be married--but I certainly did not think that I would occupy a

bed in Ward 11 of an army hospital at Verona; so far away that it is

impossible to send you even a book for Christmas.

Looking backward, it is easy enough to explain why I am here. Not

understanding what war was; not appreciating what a government

undertakes that declares war, I grew impatient at our country's apparent

criminal slowness in getting into the war; and in February, 1917, went

to Montreal and enlisted. In March 1,500 of us were loaded aboard the

Burmah and that transport steamed a thousand miles down the St. Lawrence

to the ocean and at the end of a two weeks' voyage by the northern

passage, over a gray fog-burdened ocean by day, a phosphorescent billowy

one by night, we landed at Liverpool.

At a cantonment, a few miles from London, we were subjected to four

months' strenuous training; and presumedly because I had attended a

military school for a year, I was commissioned a lieutenant in the

British army. At the end of the four months our regiment was loaded

aboard a transport and many of us did not learn our destination until we

were landed at ----, Italy. (We are not allowed to name the port.)

We reported to General, the Earl of Cavan, commanding the British forces

in Italy; and after several weeks' training were ordered to the Piave

front.

On the 24th of October at the battle of Caporetto, I experienced the

same sensation as though I had been struck in the chest by a brick, when

it was but a small calibre, soft nosed bullet; and remember having been

loaded into, and it seemed riding for days in, an overfilled ambulance,

just enough alive to have a dull sense of pain and to feel the

concussion of the great guns, though the reports seemed muffled and far

away.

I lost consciousness; was no longer near the battlefield, but at your

home in the mountains of Kentucky. I heard no sounds save the murmur of

running water and the song of a wood thrush. All about was the

implacable serenity of the blue sky and the everlasting hills. The face

of nature was unscarred; there were no shell holes, no splintered trees,

no pools of blood, no dead and dying.

Strange that I should think of you and your mountain home in the midst

of battle, violence and death. Strange that when I went on my journey

into the valley of the shadow, falling, falling, falling, into a

darkness that seemed to freeze my soul, you, a little girl, were the

only one near. Strange that when I came back to consciousness, it was by

way of the creek valley and your home and you were leading me by the

hand. Returning to consciousness I discovered it was not you but a

soft-voiced, patient, white-robed Italian nurse; and I was here. What

brought you so vividly to mind? Can you tell? It must have been the

contrast between your home as I saw it that moonlit night and the battle

field, with its barbarities, vengeances, and human abominations.

There is a sharp pain when I breathe or cough. I am ill, homesick, among

strangers, I feel deserted. To you, a little girl, the acquaintance of a

day, some influence impels me to write, though I have heard nothing

since you sent the red socks and mittens, and wrote thanking me for the

books. Since I have been wounded I have learned there are many things I

may not know.

Tell me of your own life and picture it in your own way; and also of

your part of Kentucky. Even now I see your face and hear your voice; it

seems nearer than my mother's--and she is a wonderful, much-loved woman.

I do not recover my strength as I should and will be here for some

time--if you care to write.

Your friend,

John M. Allen.

----

Lieutenant John M. Allen,

------ Hospital, Ward 11, Verona, Italy.

Dear Mr. Allen:

For several years I have been waiting, not daring to hope, but longing

for a letter--and it came on Christmas Eve. I am answering the afternoon

of Christmas Day.

The earth is mantled in white, and crystals of crisp snow give back

myriad rays of dazzling light stolen from the sun. The cedar trees bend

low with their fluffy white burdens; and the creek is frozen, except the

riffle just above Big Rock. I was just going to say that all life had

taken to itself the silence of the mountain----which is a speaking

silence to its own people--when I saw a hungry little nut-hatch bobbing

up and down the elm; and my red birds, thinking it time I served their

dinner, flew from the cedar trees and are now whistling for me from the

lilac bush.

Granny is quite feeble; so she takes a nap each afternoon in the great

rocking chair, with its padded sheepskin back and bottom; and from the

noise she is making seems to be enjoying it. I also hear an intimate

voice, though I rarely see my friend. He is the cricket of our hearth;

and now since the days are short, begins his chirping when it is time

for me to feed the chickens, milk the cow and look after Silas, the old

mule. We have no earthly use for that mule, but I cannot let him go. He

was in the prime of his days of usefulness when I first saw the light;

and now when I go out to feed him, there is a look in his old

gray-lashed eyes that speaks to my heart with the voice of an old and

trusting friend.

When people live as we do, the fowls of the barnyard and the creatures

of the manger become their friends. They speak with a look; they come

towards you with a caress; they bind themselves to your heart with an

untimid trust. That old mule's look approaches worship; and his trust

shall not be vain.

Grandad is not here. I stand at the door and see his grave on a knoll a

little way up the mountain side. It is hedged about by a white picket

fence, which I repaint each spring.

Last evening as I was wreathing it with holly and mistletoe I thought

how, when I was a little girl, he carried me over the rough places and

when he went to the store on Red Bird or to town, brought back something

he knew would delight a little girl. Then, how the last year or two

before he died, I partly paid the debt by ministering unto him. As I

stood beside his grave it seemed his spirit spoke to me of unutterable

things. * *

I have finished with the chickens, the cow and the old mule. We have had

supper. The cricket is chirping away quite comfortably in his cozy

corner under the warm hearthstones and I hear the click of Granny's

knitting needles.

My thoughts have been mainly of you since your letter came. Joys are the

scarlet buds and tears are the white flowers of life. Your letter has

made this a Christmas of white flowers; yet it brought a gift filigreed

with happiness, as tears are wont to be, except those of despair. It

seems sadness lives next door neighbor to a very pure happiness. I can

pray and weep and the tears are a holy joy. I think if God would speak

to me I would shed tears of joy; and if he comes tonight and tells me he

will make you well and bring you back to Kentucky, I shall shed tears of

great joy. That you return in health is one of the hopes my life lives

on.

You will understand, when I say I have always looked upon you, much as I

imagine the old mule feels towards me. For a long time there was little

in my life, but that little was all joy. Then you came our way and

introduced me to real dolls and to books. While I have outgrown the

dolls, I have many cold but safe friends in my books; friends you leave

at your convenience and return to at your pleasure.

Do not think that I am unhappy or lonely; nor must you think that while

you have been moving along in years, I have remained the same little

girl whose doll house you disturbed. I was seventeen last month; and a

girl of my age in the mountains is supposed to be grown. I am more--a

business woman; the bread winner of the Litman family; and having

outgrown "sang digging," for nearly a year have had the Big Creek

school.

Last June I obtained my teacher's certificate; and in doing so

surrendered my great ambition, which was to be an actress. You can judge

what a creature of fancy I am, when I tell you. I have never been inside

a theatre. I dreamed of a stage career and--landed in a school room. The

very first day of teaching I realized that it was the next best thing. I

had a wonderful audience and a stage setting unique and clever. Teaching

now seems a high-class of play acting--just lots, anyway--and children

are such fun.

I should like for you to see my school room and know the boys and girls.

I would like for you to be associated with certain other experiences of

mine. I'd like--but what's the use? I feel as though, if or when I need

you, you will be my friend. In other words, I trust you.

The glorious fun of being poor is that the little things that come your

way are greatly appreciated. Now Big Creek is my Brook Cherith; and the

school children are the ravens during the stress of high prices incident

to the war. They not only bring bread and meat but a few modest dresses

and a few books and magazines. Should the brook fail and the ravens

receive other commands, Granny and I can depend upon the unfailing jar

of meal and the cruse of oil for our daily bread; and should you like to

play the part of Elijah to the widow and the orphan, you are welcome to

your share. We will give you a cup of water and make you a little cake.

I have even had a beau and a proposal of marriage by a red-headed man

from Red Bird. I answered: "I have no idea of considering such a

proposition for several years as I expect first to graduate at the

University of Kentucky. When my Prince Charming comes wooing, he may

come with empty pockets but he must be able to read and write." The next

day Sandy came to my school, but I refused to take him in. He has since

spread the information that "Jeannette does not want 'a feller' but

expects to remain a 'school marm'"--and so I shall until a real man

comes along. Sandy Blair is as near the "sweet evening breeze" kind as

we have up here. I call him my knight of the pink shirt and green store

clothes. He never misses a dance; and Solomon in all his glory was never

arrayed as he then is.

When the evening is warm and the moon full I often spend an hour or two

on Big Rock; and musing by night, with the water and moon for company, I

feel happy and queer and both. Remembrance frequently retenders that

night of long ago; and I hear you speaking in a voice no bigger than the

heart of a whisper. The reason it is your voice is because you gave me

my first doll and what is a little girl's life without a doll?

The night of October twenty-fourth, the night of the day you were

wounded, I was out on the rock a long while; and never before had I

heard your voice nor seen you as distinctly as then. On that night you

and I held quite a conversation; and this may be the mystical

explanation why I was the one with you as you passed through the valley

of the shadow. Life on Big Creek has taught me, that not alone to the

Elijahs, to the shepherds of the hills and to the Jean d'Arcs come

voices and visitation. All who will may hear.

I knew then that you were snared in the net of tragedy and distress

spread over most of the world by this horrible war; which the honest men

of every land condemn and regret, as utterly useless and wish at an end.

They ask to live in peace and on good terms with everybody. But honest

men have nothing to do with making war or dictating terms of peace. They

are cannon fodder; mere pawns in the game of nations, moved about by one

who sits in the sun and serves the devil.

Before the millennium, there must be a world wide charity, to take the

place of what we call patriotism; which is either national selfishness

or a make-shift provincialism. There must be a development of the

national soul until man knows no nation; and in a national sense loves

his neighbor as himself. The first step towards it is to understand that

those calamities that are destroying an enemy country do not halt at the

yellow map boundary that marks our own land.

When you escape from beneath the sombre shadow of war, come to our

mountains. Here we look at the peaceful face of nature and enjoy the

poetry of silence. We are never very much alone, Granny and I. The soul

in the radiance of its love creates friends and though we are isolated

from the world we are rich in love and happiness.

Bear your sufferings and loneliness as best you may, until your ship

comes home. Know that to suffer is the dowry of God's elect and when all

else is lost you still have Him. I know He cares for the birds; and "are

ye not much better than they?" You know why and when the birds

sing?--because they are building or have a nest. May you soon recover,

find peace and love; and some day your nook-nest lined with soft down,

awaiting treasures God will send.

I have tried to put a few thoughts into words. There is enough of the

seed of thought in my mind and it germinates--but alas, it dies before I

can put it into words. My treasures come forth, half smothered by the

burden of the flesh. I hope you may understand what I have tried to tell

you.

I am, and ever shall be, your friend,

Jeannette.

----

Jeannette counted upon receiving an answer to her letter about the first

of March. She waited patiently until the seventh, then there was a great

rain and the creek was so swollen they had no mail until the tenth; and

even then, among the letters and papers that came, there was no letter

from Italy.

She reasoned: he is well and fighting again; he has not gotten my

letter; the censor held it because of my comments upon the war.

----

Lieutenant Allen was in the hospital at Verona until the twentieth of

April, 1918, when he was discharged as an incurable, his lungs having

been horribly lacerated by a soft-nosed bullet.

When discharged from the hospital he was taken to Genoa and there placed

aboard ship and sent to Liverpool; and on a returning transport which

had brought over fifteen hundred Canadians, he and forty-seven other

helpless, war-wrecked men, were returned to Montreal, Canada, the city

where they had enlisted.

On Sunday, the twenty-sixth of May, he arrived in Lexington and to keep

from frightening his mother, by a mighty effort managed to walk from a

taxicab to his father's door and into the house; when he had a severe

coughing spell which prostrated him. His father and the servants carried

him to his own room; while his mother lay unconscious on a lounge where

they had placed her.

A little space was given to his return, his war record and present

precarious condition in the Lexington and Louisville papers. A few of

his old friends called and not being able to see him, left cards and

sent flowers. Some of the men he had known were on their way to Europe,

some already in France and one of his friends, Lieutenant Gardner, had

been killed. The attention of the public was on those over there or

leaving--not upon the wounded and disabled who were being returned.

For several weeks he seemed to improve, as the weather was pleasant and

he had the most careful nursing. But one night he had a severe

hemorrhage and after it was checked his doctor informed his parents that

there was no chance for his recovery. He did not suffer greatly, but

grew slowly weaker until he knew the end was near.

The postman, several days before his death, brought Jeannette's letter.

It was marked with many addresses; and by the censor "To be held." Then

later stamped, "Passed by base censor No. ----. Verificato per censura."

The letter, which he read several times, first brought a few big tears;

then he seemed to gather resignation; then happiness from it.

----

Early in June, the month of brides and roses, Jeannette received a

letter from Mrs. Allen:

"Dear Jeannette:

"John, my boy, died last Sunday, with your letter in his hand and it was

buried with him. He requested that his books be sent to you, and they

will be forwarded tomorrow.

"As soon as you can get away from your school and leave your

grandmother, if she will not come too, come and see me. I must have some

one to talk with about John; some one whom he knew and loved. When I try

it with his father, he rushes from the room. John was an only child--now

I am childless.

"He claimed to have seen you before he died, saying: 'Mother, I have

just seen Jeannette; she is very beautiful.' Then he described you. I

believe he really saw; and if his description fits, you can help me now.

You were sitting on the Big Rock by the creek. It was the night of the

fourth of June. I can write no more.

"John's mother,

"Mary R. Allen."

Jeannette had always felt that her life, which she knew was a silent,

empty and colorless one without, was gloriously full and lit up within

by a mystical treasure, which in some way she had stumbled upon and

appropriated. She had soul companions who spoke to her with voices she

alone could hear; that told of things in her own and other people's

lives, that she and they might know, if they would but listen. She had

lived a soul life; and it had a far-flung horizon.

When she received Mrs. Allen's letter telling of the death of her son,

who had been her one friend around whom her childlike super-idealism and

innocence had built a gorgeous bower, her heart was rent by its first

great shock. She felt that her God of providence and love had cast her

from heaven into a place of utter darkness where she had been caught by

the net of fate and was now being dragged through all the sorrows and

tragedies of life. Her voices were gone; she hated the silence about

her; the mountain seemed dark and dangerous; the sun seemed harsh and

cold; the grass but to cover graves; and the trees but mourners for the

departed. He is gone! God has deserted me! She had yet to learn that the

voices would return; that other friends would come; that life is neither

tragic nor sad, though it has its hours of sadness and tragedy; and that

sorrows make for themselves deep beds in our hearts wherein they sleep

until life draws near its end and more than half of all our soul loves

has passed to the other side.

All of Thursday night she sat in Granny's great rocking chair, and when

day came, while her joys seemed gone forever, her grief had been dulled.

She found a dulling consolation in working about the house and in

looking after the creatures of the barnyard. In the afternoon her head

ached so, she laid down; and sleep came and comforted her.

Friday night after her grandmother was in bed and asleep, she went out

upon Big Rock and in the quiet of the night listened for her voices, but

they would not come. For more than an hour she cried, her frame shaking

with sobs and low, gasping moans. Then she was still a long

time--thinking of what life had been, what it now was, and hereafter

would be to her broken soul. Gradually she drew out from under the

shadow of her sorrow, until instead of being overwhelmed by it, it was a

sorrow which her soul possessed. She began to think that the wound might

some day close but she knew her heart would always bear the scar and her

days never again be quite so bright. She found that although she was

still unhappy she was consoled, and thanked God that she had this man's

friendship, perhaps his love; and began to look upon death as a very

simple affair; the soul shedding the shackles of flesh.

She slept. In her dreams the voices came back; and her sorrows were cast

off as one does a cloak, serviceable in a shower, but when the sun comes

out an uncomfortable burden. Past midnight she awoke, stiff and sore

from her hard bed, and went to the house.

Sunday afternoon, she wrote Mrs. Allen:

"About four years ago, your son on his way to Hyden, asked for and found

shelter for the night at our home. Ten days later he sent us a few

little things; among them my first real dolls. I have never seen him

since except as fancy pictured nor heard his voice as a materialist may

hear, though many times it seemed he spoke to me in a way I cannot

explain. I have four letters; they are the four treasures of my life.

"His death is my greatest loss; and through life I shall carry a scar

from the wound. But what I suffer is not worth mentioning when compared

with the grief his mother must feel. She who gave him life; who felt his

little chubby, helpless hands moving about over her breasts seeking his

food; who taught him to stand alone; to walk; to lisp his first words;

who tried to teach him first to say father, but nature and his own heart

put the name of mother in his mind and in his mouth. Then you taught him

to say his prayers; and those prayers have been answered. He prayed:

'Thy kingdom come,'--and it has come for him; while you and I weep,

refusing to be comforted; until we learn that those we love must pass to

the other side, in order that His kingdom may come for us, and we escape

death for ourselves and lose the fear of death for our dear ones.

"It is thus we find happiness in our anguish; and love for God while we

suffer from the raw realities of life; knowing he has found us worthy of

both love and unhappiness.

"How I shall love his books when they come. I hope he has marked the

passages which pleased him and noted some of his own thoughts upon their

margins.

"I shall come to you. Just now it is impossible. My school is not out

until July; and teaching to me is more than bread; it is an implacable

duty. Granny is very feeble; her condition may also delay my coming. I

have been planning for a year to take a teacher's course at the State

University. If this hope is realized, Lexington will be my home for some

time; and if you wish it, I will come many times to talk with you about

your son.

"With love and sympathy,

"Jeannette."

The following week one of the freight wagons hauling goods from the

railroad to Hyden stopped at the house and unloaded four heavy packing

cases. They contained nearly five hundred books; which had been shipped,

still in the sections of the mahogany sectional book cases; and just as

John had arranged them. She had two of her school boys unpack and set up

the cases in her room.

These, with the books she had accumulated, and those which her father's

grandfather had brought overland from Virginia, gave to her simple bed

room much the appearance of a library.

On Sunday the 18th of August, Jeannette's grandmother, the last of her

blood kin, died, and was buried on the mountain side, where were the

white, picketed graves of her father, mother and grandfather and the

unpicketed, almost unmarked, sunken-in graves of those of the Litmans

she did not know, who had gone before her day.

The day after the funeral she rented the place to Simeon Blair but as

his family was small, they had only a child, a girl of seven, there was

room for Jeannette; so she kept her room and paid four dollars a week

board. The Blairs bought her cows and chickens, but refused the mule as

a gift; so she paid Simeon five dollars a month for looking after old

Silas.

On the fifth of September she left Big Creek for Lexington, Kentucky;

and upon her arrival on the seventh, went directly to the room she had

reserved at the University dormitory; and on the tenth matriculated as a

junior.

The eighth, she spent in most careful shopping. Sunday, the ninth, she

attended services at the First Presbyterian Church and heard her first

pipe organ. As she walked back to the dormitory she drew comparisons

between her new clothes and those of the girls she passed. While

satisfied with her modest blue suit and her shoes and stockings, she

concluded her hat had too great variety and quantity of coloring and on

Monday, as soon as they were dismissed, exchanged it; having first

informed the milliner that she had worn it to church. The milliner

replied: "That's nothing, many of my customers have hats sent on

approval and wear them to church, returning them on Monday."

After exchanging her hat she called upon Mrs. Allen. The Allen home, an

old red brick house with massive colonial pillars, a slate roof, thick

walls and large rooms with high ceilings, was more than sixty years old;

and Judge Allen, who was fifty-five, had been born in it. Several of the

rooms had open fire places. It had first been heated in that way; then

with grates and a large anthracite stove; then a furnace had been

installed. Recently it had been remodeled and fitted with steam heating

and the most modern electrical appliances. These things were now

demanded by the servants, who refused service in houses not having them.

The Judge would not permit the open fire place of the library to be

removed. They used this as a sitting and informal reception room and an

open fire was kept burning from October to May. One of his clients who

had an extensive woodland on Elkhorn, furnished the oak and hickory

logs. It was in this room that Mrs. Allen received Jeannette.

Mrs. Allen was about fifty years of age, with beautiful, wavy, white

hair. She and Jeannette were of the same weight, one hundred and thirty

pounds, though Jeannette was more than an inch taller. Both had the

general appearance of women who trace their lineage from English

ancestry, through the cavalier stock of Colonial Virginia; brunettes, of

clear cut feature and slender, graceful bodies; eyes either gray or

brown--Mrs. Allen's were brown, Jeannette's were gray.

When shown into the library, she took a seat in a great chair in an

alcove which commanded a view of the street, and while waiting sat

thinking how many times John might have sat in that place and perhaps in

that very chair. Mrs. Allen came to the door, where she stood looking at

Jeannette a moment or two, until she turned her head and saw her; then

she stepped forward and took Jeannette's hands and stood looking her in

the face.

"You are just as John said you looked; a serene and beautiful face; eyes

that make even an old mule trust you." Then she put her arms about her

and kissed her; and led her back to the chair in which she had been

sitting.

"Mrs. Allen, I believe I would have known you anywhere. John had your

nose and eyes and the same general expression. I am glad I look as John

said I did. If you had shown surprise at my appearance I would have been

disappointed."

"I do not understand how John could have described you so accurately. I

could have picked you out among the hundreds of girls in the University.

There are many things we will never be able to understand."

Mrs. Allen did most of the talking; telling Jeannette all about John

from the first hour she held him in her arms, until he died with her

arms about him. They shed no tears, feeling that he was with them and

wished they should be happy when together.

When Jeannette rose to go Mrs. Allen said: "No! You must remain for

dinner. My husband will be home soon and he is anxious to see you. Only

the other night he said: 'I am sorry John did not marry Jeannette before

he died. She would be here as our daughter and we would have something

to live for. It would be nice to have the young people coming to our

home again; and we could find a good husband for her; such as our boy

would have made. When she comes do not let her go until I see her'."

Jeannette sat down again.

A little later they heard a step in the hall; the door was opened and a

man stood in the doorway. Just such a looking person as John would have

been at his age, only slightly larger.

"Mary you need not introduce us. It is Jeannette. We are glad to have

you in our home; would be glad to have you make it your own." He came

forward as she arose and took her hand; and as he held it looking into

her face his eyes slowly filled with tears.

From then until after dinner, which was almost immediately announced,

the conversation was general. When they returned to the library

Jeannette had to relate her past life in detail and disclose all her

plans for the future. When they finally let her go it was late, and

though she told them she did not mind walking home alone, they

accompanied her to the dormitory.

Upon their insistent invitation she gave up her room at the dormitory

and came to live with them at the beginning of the mid-winter term;

remaining a welcome guest until the close of the school year in June,

1919, when she returned to Big Creek.

Mrs. Allen wrote repeatedly, addressing her as daughter; and in each

letter insisted that she must return to Lexington and live with them as

such. She also received a letter from Judge Allen in which he stated:

"Mary and I desire formally to adopt you as our daughter." She answered:

"You and Mrs. Allen have taken from life much of its loneliness and

filled it with more happiness and love that I expected to be mine. When

I return, if you still wish it, I will live at your home as a daughter

during my remaining school year; and though I must leave you then, will

always give you a daughter's love. I cannot consent to a formal

adoption, which necessitates a change of name. I owe it to my parents to

bear the name they gave me until I am married. Had your son lived, I

have indulged the dream-like joy, that at his suggestion it would have

been changed to your own."

She telegraphed when she took the train for Lexington. They drove to

Winchester where they met her and taking her into their car brought her

home with them. She was given John's room which was large and cheerful

and was delighted with it.

Mrs. Allen made the young people of her set welcome at her home; and it

was not long before all the time that Jeannette could spare from her

studies was given to entertaining her friends and being entertained by

them. Late in November she gave Jeannette a formal party; and it was

reported in the Lexington and Louisville papers as a brilliant affair.

From then on, the old home, which had been closed to social gayety so

long witnessed many entertainments; the first being a Christmas

house-party of Jeannette's school friends.

She graduated with class honors the following June. Judge Allen, in

order to keep her with them, used his influence to secure a position for

her as a substitute teacher in the university; and it was tendered,

though she was not yet nineteen. She declined, saying: "I am too young

and inexperienced for so responsible a position. They can easily find

some one better fitted for the work; I must return to Big Creek to my

own people; they need me."

She took leave of Judge and Mrs. Allen, who were as a father and mother;

gave up a luxurious home, agreeable society, the association with

educated people; refused a position of some honor, with a salary of

fifteen hundred dollars a year; and returned to Big Creek; where the

only human ties were the hill-side graves; where she had no personal

friends, only the old mule, the birds, her mountain, the creek, Big Rock

and her books.

At a salary of fifty dollars a month she resumed teaching the Big Creek

school. There were thirty-three, boys and girls of all sizes; she had to

mother some, to whip others, to use diplomacy with those too big to

whip; she had to teach them manners and religion; the girls to sew and

read and write; the boys to respect their mothers and their sisters; to

leave moonshine alone; to quit swearing and "chawing" tobacco; to inject

ambition into them--make them understand that the "big man" was not he

who could drink the most moonshine and spit the furthest. It required no

study on her part to teach them; that is the book part, as they were

intelligent. The mental strain was to manage them, to improve their

manners and morals, in the face of adverse home influence in many

instances--this required much patience; and once when very severely

tried, she murmured: "What would Job have done today?"

The Blairs still occupied her house; and she boarded with them, walking

two miles to the school house, except when the creek was up when she

rode the old mule. Her world had suddenly narrowed to the two miles of

creek valley; her companions were the Blairs, the children and her

books; life had grown lonely and serious. She still heard voices, but

they were sad; what they told she wrote into story and verse. These

stories and verses she mailed to the editors of the magazines she read.

They were all returned with printed declarations: "The editor regrets

that the enclosed manuscript is not available for publication, etc.,

etc."

She would then read the verse and stories published by the periodicals

which had rejected her productions; and being satisfied that hers were

equal in thought and literary merit, despite the rejections, persevered

in her attempts, accumulating quite a collection of rejected

manuscripts.

Last week's mail had brought back two poems, which scanned perfectly and

which she thought quite satisfactory. She had called them--"A

Questionnaire," and "Other Little Boats." At the foot of the printed

rejection slip the reader had scribbled in an almost illegible hand:

"Why not select a more cheerful subject and adopt a jazzier style--we of

today would reject Milton's Paradise Lost. M. A." Bearing this criticism

in mind, she wrote and forwarded "A Genealogy" and it was accepted.

These three poems are reproduced in order that the reader may himself

judge of their merit; and because to a certain extent they convey an

idea of Jeannette's mental state at the time.

A Questionnaire.

I.

Why was not room made for thy mother in the inn?

Why wert thou manger-cradled, Lord? Could not heirship

From Israel's greatest king procure for her

Who bore thee, more than a pallet of straw in a stall;

And for thee a cradle of fine linen and soft down?

Why did not an angel whisper: "Blest inn-keeper,

Give thy best, this is Christ, Son of the Living Lord?

Is the world to know only its own? Thankless man,

Never to practice thy teaching; or see thy star?

Is he waiting for signs and wonders; believing

Battalions of angels will compel him to worship?

Thy birth-night, did not the heavens declare thy glory?

Did not an angel choir sing thy cradle hymn?

Yet to man thou remainest the carpenter's son;

Though the wise of earth waited--and prophets foretold;

Lauding Bethlehem of Judah as thy birthplace.

"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,

Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,

For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,

Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

II.

Are only common people, pawns of life, shepherds,

Who abide in the fields and keep watch day and night,

To see thy angel herald and hear his evangel:

"Behold I bring to you good tiding of great joy,

For unto you is born a saviour--Jesus the Lord?"

Do only dreamy shepherds like the Maid of France,

See and hear thy choir as it sings: "Glory to God,

Exalted One--on earth peace, good will towards men?"

Do only the old and feeble, living in the past,

Or waiting for the consolation of Israel,

Like Simeon; cling to life until they see the Lord?

Do only the lonely Annas, eighty years widowed,

Know thy face because of their fasting and prayers?

When will we who delve for gold, lift our eyes skyward;

And seeing the star, worshipfully come and give;

Remembering thou didst come and give--as prophets sang:

"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,

Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,

For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,

Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

III.

Is thy epiphany known only to wise men,

Living near the morning sun?--Those who saw thy star

And followed as it led, came to worship, saying:

"Israel, where is the One born king of the Jews?"

Are only those who are led by an angel or a star,

To know and worship thee? While we, though thou art here,

In our own town, to be our guest and bear our sins;

Refuse to take thee in; saying: "There is no room."

Will but the few, the wise and great, coming a long way,

Find thee--having found, worship--having worshipped,

Give treasured gold, frankincense and myrrh; while we,

When thou knockest at the door of our dwelling,

Tenanted by false gods, say: There is no room here;

We entertain more appropriate guests, old friends;

Go to the public khan; there you will find shelter,

A stall, a manger and a little straw--Yet the prophets sang:

"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,

Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,

For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,

Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

IV.

As Herod the King, not loving thy appearing,

Shall we, when Magi tell us thou hast come, decree

A massacre of babes; and in blind and willful

Destruction, mark our mad way with the red blossoms

Of martyrdom; until Rama is a land of tears

And Rachel unconsoled weeps for her children?

Since it was not God's will that the babe should perish,

The foster-father a dreamer, was angel-warned;

"Hearken! Arise! take the young child and his mother;

Flee to Egypt and remain until I bring word;

At Herod's death return." Thus the child escaped.

Not so the man, whose mission was death in my place.

Though he went about doing good, teaching and healing;

I followed to betray; and after his arrest,

Cried: "Give us Barabbas! Crucify him! Crucify!"

He died for his sheep, deserted, though prophets sang:

"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,

Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,

For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,

Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

Other Little Boats.

I.

For His chosen of the land of Canaan, God made six seas;

But low-lying Galilee, skirted by oleander trees,

Resting in the bosom--reflecting the emerald hills

Of Gennesareth, Valley of Abundance, was God's gift

To His son; the place to begin his ministry to men.

II.

Capernaum, on the western shore, where loved to rest

Desert-dried camel drivers, traveling to Damascus;

Was to the Messiah, nearest home, the place loved best.

These homeless wanderers, by sweet visions were elated,

Charmed by music of the sea, God had consecrated.

III.

The fisher boats of Bethsaida, manned by forceful men,

Pinnaces of Herod, patrols of the Roman nation,

Glided over the limpid sea, or rode at their station;

While near the vine-clad villas, moored to wave-kissed wall,

Cushioned craft rocked sleepily, waiting twilight's call.

IV.

To Capernaum, one day, came a man whose face was sad;

They should have cried Hosanna! but her people were not glad.

A few thrilled with gladness and asked: Who might be he?

Wise blind, among them, answered: "Why, a carpenter, he;"

And their evil spirits trembled, while gladness lit the sea.

V.

With eyes of gladness, He beheld shepherds guarding the flocks;

Husbandmen hedging tender vines about with walls of rocks;

And workmen toiling mightily to harvest the ripe grain.

With eyes of sadness, He saw man, whom God had made master,

Unprotected; straying, shepherdless, courting disaster.

VI.

The father whispered: "The hour is here, shepherd my sheep;

The wage for atonement." So He gave the call: "Do not weep;

I come to offer the bread of life to the hungry soul;

To open the eyes of the blind; to make the broken whole."

Did his own receive Him? They crowded Him into a boat.

VII.

From this floating altar, He spoke to them of the sower:

"Behold, there went out a sower to sow; it came to pass;"

And other parables; until twilight, dispersed the mass.

Then His message delivered and the day's work done at last,

Said to His disciples: "Let us pass to the other side."

VIII.

Following after, "there were with Him other little boats;"

Bearing those minded to receive him, having heard His call.

The Master slept, cradled on the bosom of His own sea.

His deep serenity was not troubled. Why should it be?

He had spent the day healing; and tendering life to all.

IX.

Mid-way a storm arose and whipped the sea to anger.

His disciples watching the wild, wind-lashed waves pile high,

Were frightened. Thinking the boat sinking, began to cry:

"Master, carest thou not that we perish? The boat will fill!"

And he arose, rebuked the wind, saying: "Peace be still."

X.

They wondered at the calm. The wind knew the voice of God.

They had not said: "O Master! save the other little boats!

The men following us are in distress! We are with Thee.

There is no one with them who can still tempest and sea!"

And the Master wept, knowing His own received Him not.

A Genealogy.

Fancy, fairest of the fairies,

Wedded Light, first of creation.

Unto them was born a daughter,

Hope, most graceful of earth's creatures.

Vision, traveling from earth to heaven,

Saw her flitting in high places;

Charmed by her face and figure,

Boldly made her his prisoner.

When he found all dreams were of her,

And his thoughts clung close about her,

Fearful now that he might lose her,

To increase the ties that bound her,

Gave her Love and thus he held her.

Thus was born earth's fairest daughter;

Eldest child, and the most tender;

Who brought with her of God's treasure,

Service in unending measure.

This was given unto Adam,

As he slept in peaceful Eden.

To them came a second daughter,

Of mystic, immobile figure,

Who never strayed from her way,

Nor wavered in her purpose.

'Twas Faith, invisible virgin;

Pure priestess of Immortality.

The incense from her altar fires,

Bears man's prayers to infinity.

Next unto them was born Reason,

Skeptical chemist, who would test.

All pearls in mind's muddy acid;

And if found unsoluble bury them,

Wrapped in the shroud of denial.

Reason wandering in the dark,

Met Caution, a sombre maiden;

To them was given a son, Doubt;

Dark visaged and night loving;

Shadow to himself and others;

Blind leader of the nearly blind.

Hope saddened by a first shadow,

Sought relief in fair Tomorrow,

Land of Sunshine, Realm of Gladness;

And there found Truth, dwelling sublime,

In isolation, on a mountain.

"Come unto man's world, brightest jewel;

Cure earth's sadness, dispel darkness;

Bring light to Vision, end Doubt's mission,

Demonstrate Reason, cure sick Faith."

Truth, unarrayed, unafraid, came;

First beseeching from Infinity

A kindly monitor for man.

"Give to man's soul to know the right."

"Thou goest, and thou art the right."

"But Darkness, Doubt and Reason,

Hedge him about. What shall be done,

To keep his soul from strangulation?"

"I have given Vision, Hope and Faith;

And Truth when found will make him free."

"He needs more; Darkness and the Devil,

Have entered thy fair garden."

"Take then, and bear to him, O Truth,

The flame-like, still, small voice, Conscience."

The first month Jeannette resumed teaching was the stormiest; the

children tried her out; she came through victorious, her supremacy

established. By the end of the third month all the children loved her;

and then things ran along so smoothly that she described her life to

Mrs. Allen as: "so contemplative and uneventful as to make the social

dissipations you promise an inducement; a year's shopping, of clothing,

stationery, a typewriter and books, makes the visit almost necessary;

and then I shall see you and Judge Allen, that makes it most

attractive."

During the year her school had slowly grown until it ranked as the best

country school in the county. The children had been transformed in

appearance and disposition, until the neighborhood noticed the change,

and people would say, "there goes one of Jeannette's children."

In the spring of 1922 one of the young men who had graduated in

Jeannette's class came to Hyden. He made inquiry and found out that she

was earning fifty dollars a month teaching a small school on Big Creek.

He then called upon the county superintendent and the county judge and

informed them that a year or so before she had refused a position in the

State University that paid more than three times the salary she was

receiving; giving as the reason, that her duty was to her own people.

This information, with the trimmings that gossip added, made Jeannette a

heroine locally. It was suggested that they should elect her county

school superintendent; but the man who wanted the office called their

attention to the fact that the statute declared the incumbent must be

twenty-four years of age. Then she was suggested as a candidate for

several other county offices by the local newspaper, "The Thousand

Sticks;" but when interviewed, declined with thanks.

Then at a meeting of the school board she was elected principal of the

Hyden public school. When the place was tendered she asked until August

first, to answer; and the board agreed to keep the place open for her.

Jeannette's school in 1922 closed on the twenty-third of June. She was

in the habit of visiting the Allens each year at the beginning of her

vacation, but Mrs. Allen's health being poor they had gone to the sea

shore for a couple of months and did not expect to return until the last

of July. They had written asking her to join them, but this she declined

to do, saying: "I will defer my visit until you return, probably coming

to Lexington the middle of August, unless I can be of real service by

helping you."

About the first of July, Simeon Blair informed her that his cousin Sandy

Blair was coming to spend a few days with him. There was plenty of room

as she had built a wing of two rooms, which she occupied as a study and

bed room.

Although she had never liked Sandy, she could not object. She looked

upon his visit as of little importance; though she was sufficiently

interested to inquire as to what he had been doing since he had joined

the army in 1917. Simeon replied: "Sandy was in Germany three years. He

came back last January and was sent to Mexico. I asked him but he did

not say what he was doing, except that he had quit the army. I guess he

has been dancing and frolicing around with them Mexican senorinas. You

know how he loves to dance and fiddle. He's a big fellow. He hasn't been

working much. There are no corns on his hands; they are almost as soft

as yours, Miss Jeannette. I saw him yesterday at the mouth of Big Creek.

He don't gab as much as he used to."

When Mrs. Blair blew the horn for supper, Jeannette came in from the Big

Rock, where she had been reading. The others were already at the table;

and as she entered the room, a tall, broad shouldered, red headed man,

dressed in blue overalls, a hickory shirt and laced army boots rose up

and came forward to meet her. She saw it was Sandy and was surprised

that he rose to greet her and did not resume his seat until she was

first seated. He also called her Miss Litman, instead of Jeannette, as

he had always done.

She watched him during the meal. He had little to say; did not eat with

his knife or drink his coffee from the saucer as he used to do. All his

clothing except his boots appeared to be new. After watching a while,

she thought: "the same old Sandy; nothing worries him; he has a

pleasant, intelligent face and he certainly is good looking; but his

hands are too white and soft for a working man's. I guess he will marry

some poor woman who will work herself to death supporting his family,

while he fiddles and dances through life."

After supper, Simeon asked him to play. She noticed that his violin was

of German make and evidently a fine instrument. He played "Turkey in the

Straw," "The Arkansaw Traveler" and such other local dance music as had

been played when her granny was a girl. He did it so well that she was

satisfied with training he would make an accomplished musician.

She got out her own violin, an inferior instrument, with the idea of

giving him a lesson; first showing him how to hold the bow properly. For

some cause he could not get his fingers just right until she placed

them. Then they played together. He made many mistakes; but her teaching

had made her very patient. They sat up until eleven o'clock, which was a

late hour for that household, because they arose at daylight, about four

o'clock at that season; when Jeannette said: "I must go to bed; you have

had enough instruction for one lesson."

"But, Miss Litman, play just one piece for me as it should be played."

She got out her most difficult music and by lamplight played it for him.

He seemed enchanted.

"Please just show me how that last part goes."

She did so, saying: "Now you try."

He played well, though he made many mistakes. As she rose to leave, the

clock having struck twelve, he played a few short connected bars, the

part she had found difficult, so divinely, that she said: "Do that

again. You seem gifted of the gods; they have let you stumble into the

perfect way."

He tried; but the way was as strangely closed as it had been opened.

"Oh! it is half past twelve! Good night, Sandy."

She went to bed; and dreamed of choirs invisible. Sandy walked up the

creek until he was beyond hearing at the house; then he played "Angel

Voices" as it should have been played. He came to the house, slept and

dreamed; not of angel choirs, but of graceful wood nymphs; and their

queen's name was Jeannette.

The following evening, Sandy got out his fiddle, saying: "This hayr

fiddle is shore a fine box;" and he played Turkey in the Straw,

improvising variations that put life into their feet and made them think

dancing was close akin to worship.

"Miss Litman, will you give me another lesson?"

She declined; thinking it might lead to a misunderstanding. He might

think that she desired his company; and she only liked educated men.

----

Sandy Blair, on December 15, 1917, left Red Bird for Louisville and on

the 18th enlisted in the regular army. He was sent to Camp Taylor; and

when fitted out by the supply sergeant, insisted that he must have a

fit. He pursued the policy of the importunate widow so persistently that

when he came forth his well developed chest, broad shoulders and lean

muscular legs were so fittingly encased as to make him the most

conspicuous of the four hundred and sixty "rookies" who that day had

been received and outfitted.

He represented that he had been sergeant in a company of the state

guards for more than two years and in order to substantiate the

declaration paid his corporal to induct him to the manual of arms and

follow up the introduction by several strenuous drills; in the meanwhile

finding an excuse for evading the first drill or two to which his raw

company was subjected; though he stood to one side watching and

listening carefully.

He paid the corporal two dollars to drill him all Sunday afternoon; and

when he suggested that he would be too stiff and sore to drill the

following morning, answered: "Not on your tin type. I may have a rookie

head but my legs are veterans. Don't think these few pranks will worry

these hayr arms and legs; I have put in the last five winters swinging

big fat gals. And I've got a back like a pack mule, made to tote things

on; but it's never been broke to a pack saddle and never will be."

On Monday he took his place with his company and went through the drill

with the snap and precision of a veteran. As intended, he caught the eye

of the captain; and when he was told to step forward, saluted him like a

general; and stood at attention.

"Well, my man, what experience have you had?"

"Two years as drill sergeant, Company C, -------- Regiment of the

Kentucky State Guards."

"What is your name?"

"William L. Blair, though most people call me Sergeant Sandy Blair."

"Return to the ranks." (This order came near getting him--but as the

captain turned away, he resumed his place in line.)

The captain looked his way and wrote something in a note book.

A few days later the company was reorganized and he was made a junior

drill sergeant, the superior of the corporal who had drilled him.

The corporal considered the story too good to keep. It reached the ears

of the captain and he told it to the Colonel, threatening to send Blair

to the guard house. But the Colonel said: "No, send him to me."

Blair presented himself; and after a most deferential salutation, stood

at attention. The Colonel leisurely looked him over. While Blair guessed

the cause of the summons, he never shifted his eyes from a spot about an

inch above the Colonel's head. He stood as a marble statue, and without

the least change of expression; though he heard the Colonel laugh and a

moment later snappily say:

"Sergeant Blair, where are you from?"

"Red Bird, Clay County, Kentucky."

"So you are an accomplished drill sergeant?"

"Have me shot as a liar, if my legs are not veterans."

"Are you a good marksman?"

"The best in America."

"Go at once to the rifle range. I'll be over shortly. We will see if you

are as good a marksman as drill sergeant."

At the rifle range he found about twenty-five other soldiers who had

been selected for a test of marksmanship. As the colonel and his captain

had not yet arrived, he stepped up and from a dozen rifles chose one and

examining it carefully appeared satisfied and laid it to one side. When

the officers came up the men were informed that each was to fire five

rounds at the three hundred yard target.

The Colonel turning to Blair, said: "Blair, you begin the test, as your

nerve might be shattered by the strain of delay."

From the time Blair could hold a rifle out and reach the trigger he had

scarcely laid one aside, except to attend a dance, eat and sleep. His

first shot missed the bull's eye about an inch, the second was on the

edge and all the others went square into it. He made a better score than

any of his competitors. The next day he was promoted to sergeant major

and made instructor on the rifle range.

On the sixth of March, 1918, his company sailed for France. In May they

were doing service in the front line trenches.

After the armistice was signed, Lieutenant Blair was sent to Coblenz,

Germany, where he remained until January, 1922, when he was ordered

home, returning on the transport Crook. He came back as Captain Blair,

of -------- Infantry. During the more than three years he was in

Germany, he gave all of his leisure time to study and music; and when he

left, spoke German and French fluently and played the violin like an

inspired professional.

Upon arrival in New York he retired from the army; and with the

recommendations given him by his general, his former colonel and the

captain who wanted to send him to the guard house, who was now a major,

asked and was given a position in the general offices of the Standard

Oil Company. When it was discovered that he spoke German and French

fluently, had considerable executive ability, particularly in handling

red-blooded men; he was sent as an agent to Tampico, Mexico, to see what

he could do towards straightening out the rows between the Mexican and

American employees. In June he was ordered to return to New York to make

a detailed report and for instructions. The officers were so well

satisfied with his report and what he had accomplished that he was

tendered a responsible position in Mexico at a salary of $300.00 per

month, American money. He accepted; and before returning, asked and was

granted a month's leave, to visit his old home on Red Bird; where he had

not been since December, 1917.

----

It was late afternoon. Up the valley where the shadow of the mountain

rested, the night creatures were waking up and had begun their chorus,

which would grow in volume as the shadow deepened. Jeannette, who had

been reading under the shade of a great vine, which formed a natural

bower in which she had placed a rude table and chair, came out upon Big

Rock, where the light was stronger. She did not reopen her book, but sat

meditating--how the memory of John Allen, which had clung to and filled

her mind and life for so long, seemed slowly becoming a memory. She had

never loved the real John Allen, but a spiritual personality; a creation

of her own fancy, which she had placed in the body of John Allen as she

had remembered him, and made this creation a living soul; and the

combination a standard by which she gauged all men.

She recalled, how five years before she had rejected Sandy Blair,

feeling his wooing an insult. Had done it because--he was ignorant--was

shiftless--no, but because she measured him by the Allen standard; and

since, looking for her Allen, had discouraged every man who had

attempted to make love to her.

And Sandy Blair--he had again come into her life. Strange, that now

whenever she thought of John, she should think of Sandy. "My books, the

creatures of this quiet nook, the trees, the creek, the mountains, God's

altar for my prayers, these are my companions. John is my thought love,

with whom I enjoy a mystic union that will last through life--as long as

I am faithful. These are my interests, my life, other than teaching, and

form and fill it and keep it free from what might otherwise have made it

a weary materialism. These have transformed my very common, every-day

life, raised me above a dark loneliness to contentment and at rare

intervals into the company of the stars. Yet now the change threatens, I

do not understand, I seem to feel a slow suffocation of the soul

threatening me. Can it mean that--must I find some one to love? Must I

quit weaving the web of my life with that of a mystical love?"

She was just beginning to realize that while her mind spun with this

fantastic thread of life, another part of her being, the flesh, demanded

other company, and held another distaff and spun quite another thread.

She had yet to learn that a perfect love gives not only the mind but the

body. That without the giving of both, love ends in darkness; and that

to find happiness the two threads must be entwined and followed into the

light.

She did not comprehend why now, when she saw John's face, which had

always been so distinct, it seemed gradually to fade and merge into

Sandy's. Sandy as he looked, when several nights before he had sat and

played to her. She was vexed with herself--but even more with Sandy.

Young lady; you are about to have that experience which has come to

every woman since Eve. God's plan is breaking from its chrysalis before

you. The slowly fading spirit of John is entering the lists in conflict

with Sandy's materialism; it is the conflict of the intangible with the

tangible, the memories of yesterday with the hopes of tomorrow. You will

act as second for one or the other. Faithful in the start you may follow

behind the spirit; but if you follow the way of your sisters, and they

go the right way, you will end by wishing you were second to the man who

seeks to drive the wraith away. Mayhap you may shift your allegiance

early in the conflict--who knows? You do not, nor do I. Take care!

Beware! Your long dream of John may end by kissing Sandy.

"Nonsense."

At this inopportune moment Sandy climbed upon the rock, saying:

"This shore is a nice place, may I set down."

"You are welcome to the seat Mr. Blair, but you must excuse me, I was

just going to the house."

He sat down; his face as red as his hair; provoked at Jeannette's abrupt

departure. But when he recalled that she had called him Mr. Blair for

the first time in his life, he was consoled, believing that it evidenced

progress in his suit. He realized that he had made an impression of some

kind; and his experiences, which were not limited, suggested that even

an awakened animosity was better than the indifference of the past

years.

Jeannette felt ashamed for having run away. "Running from Sandy

Blair--sakes alive! Why did I do it? Have I grown timid? Am I afraid of

Sandy Blair? I suppose he's laughing at me. Well, tonight I'll give him

another lesson on the violin, just to show him, light-footed,

empty-headed young men of his class mean nothing to me."

Sandy rose from the supper table and after a yawn remarked: "It's too

quiet around here for me; I think I'll go up to Hiram Lewis'." He took

his fiddle from its case and tucking it under his arm, put on his hat

and stood for a moment in the doorway. Hiram Lewis was their nearest

neighbor and had two daughters of marriageable age.

Jeannette who had read all the afternoon and really desired to hear him

play their mountain music, which he did so capably, was disappointed.

Without understanding the cause, she felt embarrassed at the thought of

asking him to remain; and would not do so directly.

"If you are going you better put your violin in its case. It's going to

rain."

"My what?"

"O, your fiddle then; if it gets wet it will affect its tone."

"O! the sound it makes. If I stay will you teach me to play that hard

piece of yours?"

"That was my intention; but do not let me detain you."

"My intention--is that the name of the piece?"

"No, sit down Sandy, I'll get my fiddle."

Jeannette went to her room for the violin and music. While there the

thought occurred they had better use her reading lamp instead of Mrs.

Blair's smoky, smelly, tin one, which gave but a feeble flame; removing

the green shade, she substituted one of pink silk which was much

prettier and which transformed the light into a more becoming tint.

Carrying it into the other room she placed it on the small table near

the door, and sat down beside it, her face tinted by the shade. The

Blair family were on the porch, just beyond the doorway; and Sandy sat

on the door-step, almost at her feet; his bright red hair and smiling,

healthy face in the full glare of the light.

As he played she noted his mobile features, which betrayed their owner's

feelings by sudden changes of expression. She had always thought his

face an agreeable one; now first she noted its expressiveness and

evidences of character and determination; attributes, which she had said

he lacked.

Her musing was interrupted by the Blair family coming in the door. They

were in the habit of retiring with the chickens; and their cousin's

playing was no reason for a violation of the rule. After they were gone

Sandy seemed to play with even more perfect expression. She marveled at

the ease and certainty with which he played his homely pieces. "He is

quick and with a few lessons would soon learn to play better than I

can--perhaps with training he might make one of the world's great

musicians. I will teach him the notes, and how to hold the bow. His

habits are good; he neither chews nor drinks, as most of our boys. I

believe he would make a good hus--; but he is uneducated."

Just here Sandy looked up: "Listen! I worked this out yesterday and call

it 'Voices Jeannette Hears.'" He played something not much louder than a

whisper, a chorus of all the still small voices she had heard about her

home--the wind, the birds, the brooks, the crickets, the spirits of the

hills and dells; little prayers of praise, little prattlings of joy and

happiness--yes, and of love. She felt so happy; and yet so very, very

lonely, for someone or something to love. A tear found its way down each

cheek and two others nestled on her lashes, loath to leave the fountains

of their birth. When he finished neither spoke. He did not look towards

her, but out into the darkness of the peaceful, starry night.

While thus they sat it seemed to Jeannette that something with a touch

light as a feather and lips soft as the petals of a rose brushed her ear

and a joyous little spirit with a dulcet young voice, such as she had

never heard before, whispered: "Is he not handsome? Do you not see how

quick he is to learn? Teacher, teach him! you can in a few months. How

delightful to educate him; mould his fresh, open, plastic mind; make of

him not alone a husband but a soul companion; which you could not do

were his soul awake to its full strength and vision. Jeannette, it is

springtime for you; be not a virgin of steel; let your soul bud and

flower, the blossom of life is love, let it bear fruit. Would you die a

spinster with a drying heart, knowing only a spirit love, little better

than a dream? Cast off this sombre veil that you have wound about your

heart; open your eyes; do you not love him? I have brought Sandy to

you."

She rose from her seat and in a voice not much louder than the one she

had been listening to, managed to say: "Good night, Sandy," and left the

room.

He did not move, though he answered: "Good night," and as her door

closed added: "O Life! O Life! I have found the place of thy dwelling."

He laid his violin upon the table and went out into the night. The night

was not dark, though there was no moon. The stars were bright, they

seemed to be holding a carnival. The night was not cold; a midsummer

breeze stirred the trees; the leaves whispered of love and threw kisses

to the stars.

Jeannette slept with a red rose on her pillow; and before she slept

looked out the window at the stars and thought of many things.

----

"Jeannette, have you any letters to mail, I am going to the Big Creek

postoffice?"

She gave him one addressed to the editors of ----, which contained the

manuscript of some verses--"The Heart of Things"--the first of her

published poems. She offered the loan of the old mule, saying: "It's

more than twelve miles; will you be back tonight?"

"Yes, I'm traveling light; twenty-four miles is a mere stroll; and I

shall return, much as I imagine the old mule would, at a brisker gait,

because I'm coming home."

She said nothing more; being surprised by Sandy's speech, which had

suddenly dropped the mountain idiom.

When night came she sat on the porch until after nine o'clock, then she

went to her room, fearful that if Sandy should come and find her there

he might misunderstand; might think she had been waiting--but the idea,

that's impossible. She tried to read, she had not read much lately, she

was not in the mood; blew out the lamp--and just afterward the gate

opened; and she heard him enter the house and go to his room.

She spent most of the following day until late afternoon in her bower

under the great vine; then went for a walk along the path which skirted

the left bank of the creek, the way of the foot-traveler, to avoid

repeated fordings, necessary if one followed the road.

Along the path were scattered scraps of letter paper and a little

further on she saw an empty envelope from the War Department, addressed

to Captain William L. Blair. When she returned, she asked Simeon: "Who

is Captain William L. Blair?"

"I don't know no Captain Blair. Sandy's name is William Lees Blair, but

everybody calls him Sandy. O! I saw that name the other day on a letter

he brought back from Big Creek--'Captain William L. Blair, U. S.

A.'--the letter had been sent him from Coblenz, Germany. Do you reckon

Sandy was a captain?"

Jeannette began to suspect that Sandy might be amusing himself at their

expense. At supper she was formally courteous; she first thought of

calling him Captain Blair, but changed her mind and addressed him as Mr.

Blair.

When the supper dishes had been put away and the chores done, all of

them sat upon the porch until Simeon announced it was his bedtime; when

he and his family retired.

"Jeannette, will you give me a lesson on the fiddle?"

"All right, Sandy. Would you like to know how to read music? In music

there are signs standing for sounds, as the letters of the alphabet in

combination form words, by which we express our thoughts. Do you catch

what I mean?"

"Yes, I guess. But that's funny. I thought you just learned the tune."

"Put your chair near mine; I will show you some of the signs and

symbols. What's a symbol, Sandy?"

"Down in Mexico they tell me the gals play on them; banging them on

their elbows and knees; that is the big ones and the little ones they

click in their fingers."

"Well, Sandy, this is another kind. Now this is a symbol in music,

telling--" and so she went on for some time, Sandy listening

attentively, with his head very near hers and their chairs as close

together as he thought the occasion would justify.

When she finished he said: "Miss Jeannette, please play that fine piece

of yourn?"

She played it through, then arranging his fingers on his bow, showed him

just how he should stand; and playing a few notes at a time, instructed

him to replay them.

That part of the music which was difficult and she felt satisfied she

had not played correctly, it struck her Sandy played with greater ease

and expression than she could do; but he made horribly ludicrous

mistakes in the easy portions. Intentionally, she had misplayed a

portion and when he reached this part he played it correctly. Then she

knew that for some reason he was fooling them.

"Now Sandy, play it alone. Do your best, I shall go out on the porch and

listen."

He started off in a halting amateurish way, making many blunders; as he

played his mistakes became fewer, his touch fuller; gradually he forgot

his purpose to deceive, the music was a favorite; towards the end he

played as she had never dreamed the piece could be played.

He came out on the porch and sat down beside her. Neither spoke. He knew

she was no longer fooled.

"Jeannette, I can read and write."

"Write something so I can see; you may be fooling me."

He felt in his pockets for a scrap of paper but found nothing. Then he

opened a card case and taking out his card, wrote on the back a few

words.

She went into the light and read: "_Chi si marita alla svelta si pente

adagio_. William L. Blair."

She turned the card over and read "William Lees Blair." She called out

the door, "Good night, Captain William Lees Blair;" and went to her

room.

He did not see her again until the next afternoon. He heard her singing

on Big Rock, and walking down to the creek, followed up the bank until

he came to the foot of the rock. It was very steep on that side, almost

unscalable. She heard him climbing up. His hat fell off; a moment later

his bare red head peeped above the surface, then his smiling, ruddy face

rose slowly over the edge, much as she had seen the full red moon rise

over the edge of the cliff that capped her mountain.

"Jeannette, really, I can read."

"Let me see."

And he wrote on another card:

"_Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place ou tu demeures._"

She took it saying: "Now since you have had your second lesson in

penmanship, you may go home. I am busy embroidering a Christmas present

for a friend and as this is the twenty-third of July, am too busy upon

it to be disturbed."

That evening Simeon and his wife sat out upon the porch; Jeannette and

Sandy upon the door-step. He had his fiddle and was playing "Turkey in

the Straw," keeping time with his foot, his face lit by a happy smile.

Jeannette's slipper tapped the floor in minor accompaniment. She looked

into his face; saw the brightness of it in the darkness, and whispered:

"Your music is most suggestive: I never felt so much like dancing as I

do tonight."

Sandy thought his cousins had forgotten their rule of retiring with the

chickens. The old rooster crowed. "Listen at Old Speck, he thinks it's

almost day." Simeon gave an enormous yawn; they thought he would never

close his mouth. It went shut with a snap, followed by the remark: "It's

time all honest folks were in bed." It was nearly nine o'clock; and he

and his wife went in.

How glorious the night; how peaceful and starry; a time for visions, not

words, therefore no one spoke. The bold, bad captain, taking advantage

of the darkness, made Jeannette's hand a prisoner. It fluttered as a

frightened bird; then it lay still, either having lost hope of escape or

resigned to a captive fate. Suddenly it escaped.

"Captain, I'm surprised! Get pencil and paper; you must have your third

lesson in penmanship. Look on the mantel and bring me a couple of

matches."

He took a card from his case and wrote: "_Jeannette, Mein Liebchen:

Willst Du mich Heiraten?_"

He handed her the card; she read it; the match went out. There was a

little scuffle, a smothered exclamation. A great owl, whose downy wings

made no noise, lit in the elm by the gate and observing them through his

night optics, exclaimed: "Who! Who!" Surprised, the captain released his

prisoner; she darted into the doorway, calling: "Goodnight, Captain,

hope to see you tomorrow."

Her dream love ended that night; the talisman that drove it from this

material to the spirit world, where it was doubtless happier, was a very

human kiss. Most of you girls know the kind--they were smuggled in from

Europe when our boys came home.

The following afternoon, Jeannette, book in hand, sought the shelter of

her vine-clad bower. On the bench was a note which she read. She had

just finished it, when the Captain stood at the entrance.

"Come in, Captain, it is time for a reading lesson."

He sat down beside her, took the book and read--almost a page.

"If you do not care for the book read this." She handed him a card,

marked in the upper left-hand corner, "Lesson No. 1," and he read:

"_Chi si marita alla svelta si pente Adagio._"

"Translate; I do not read Italian, or is it Spanish?"

"Teacher, I do not want to."

"If you do not I will send you home."

"Well, here goes: 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure'."

"Just such sentiment as I expected. May I ask if you are speaking from

European experience?"

"No, merely quoting an absurd axiom."

She handed him another card, marked "Lesson No. 2."

"Read."

"_Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place on tu demeures._"

"Translate."

"O Life! O Life! I have found the place where thou dwellest."

"You may give a more specific interpretation of your meaning at the

close of your lesson. Read this," giving him a card marked: "Lesson No.

3."

"_Jeannette, Mein Liebchen: Willst Du mich Heiraten?_"

"Translate."

"Sure, sure. 'Jeannette, My Love: Will you marry me?'"

"Now you may read the poem I found in here. It seems to be in your

handwriting."

A Voice Jeannette Should Hear.

I.

Jeannette, by man though rarely seen;

Is a friend of Running Water,

To the Mountain, fairest daughter,

To the forest, stateliest queen.

She hears mystic voices whisper

As a spirit to his sister.

Songs you and I have never known.

The trees speak of coming showers,

Earth creatures of twilight hours;

The owl tells secrets of the night,

The robin sings of dawn's delight,

The lark of harvest and ripe moon;

But when love whispers I'll call soon,

She's thinking of the distant moon.

II.

Jeannette, think you your paradise

Will always remain quite this nice,

Unless real love shall come as guest?

Fair one, think you the summer sun

Will last until your life is done

And spirit love not flit away;

Nor sun sink low in golden west,

Nor night come round at end of day?

Do you not fear those long, black nights,

Which come with winter's storm and rain,

And put an end to life's delights,

Giving voice to trouble and pain?

Then whisper to love the password,

And he will enter, having heard.

III.

Sentiment may own yesterday,

But love today has right of way;

Hope builds castles for tomorrow,

Of warm sunbeams, not of sorrow;

Memories drape life with sadness;

Love walks hand in hand with gladness.

To the past we dedicate tears,

Love owns today and coming years;

Take his warm hand and walk with me;

Let life be what the future be,

I wish it spent, Jeannette, with thee;

And when old age delves in the past,

May love say, "I have held full sway,

For memories fair crown each day."

----

Then, for more than an hour, an angel without the bower, kept strangers

away and enjoined silence. He did not stand with flaming sword, but with

finger on his lips.

----

They walked down to the old field below the Rock House. Near its center

was an old dead tree; and on the tip of the topmost snag a lark sang.

"Listen, do you hear what he says."

"No, he's whistling like any other meadow lark."

"Translate."

"I do not know the language."

"I do; 'Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee!'"

They led the old mule to the barn, and gave him ten ears of corn and two

bundles of oats. Sandy got up at daylight the next morning and repeated

the dose; the old mule knew something was up. Then Sandy came to the

house and put on some clothes that had been sent up from Red Bird.

Jeannette came to breakfast a little late; she had on a short-skirted

riding habit. Simeon and his wife tried not to show their surprise. She

kept still; he exercised less restraint or exhibited more curiosity than

his wife--they say men have more. "What's up, Sandy? Why have you put on

your Sunday clothes, this is Saturday?"

And Sandy answered: "Jeannette and I are going to Hyden to be married."

"Well, I'll be d----d! How're you going?"

"She'll ride the old mule; I'll walk and lead the beast."

"Why it's fifteen miles; it'll take all day."

"That's all right."

"You better take my horse."

"No, Jeannette wants to ride the old mule and wants me to lead him.

She's boss until tomorrow."

"Well, I'll be d----d!"

----

It was nearly midnight when they came home again. After feeding the old

mule, they sat down on the door-step.

"My Captain, will you get your violin and play some real music?"

"Jeannette, how did that old mule ever manage to travel to Hyden and

back with such a load of sweetness?"

"By dint of placing one foot before the other, Sandy. We were only

sixteen hours on the road; we made nearly two miles an hour. I do not

think I would care to hear 'The Arkansaw Traveler' after that journey;

but suppose you end the day, it must be merging into the morrow, by

playing 'Turkey in the Straw.'"

The old familiar tune awoke Simeon and he awoke his wife. "Listen,

Mandy! those crazy things are back. Hear Sandy, he's playing 'Turkey in

the Straw;' that boy will never settle down." He called out: "Go to bed

and give other people a chance to sleep; or else keep still and start

breakfast."

In a little while the house was very still. There was no sound except

the chirping of the cricket of the hearth. You who dwell in cities and

know nothing of firesides, may not appreciate his simple song.

The Cricket's Song.

I.

Chorister of the hearth,

When stillness reigns, I sing

To God, Eternal King,

Praises for the fireside.

II.

Thy simple souls dwell here,

Content throughout the year.

Love garlands every day;

Peace keeps harsh words away.

III.

Grant the door open wide

For young and happy bride,

With husband by her side;

May their sweet dream come true.

IV.

When morning star doth rise

Joy comes; the baby cries;

New mother with glad eyes,

Beholds hers and Thine own.

V.

Make this a place of rest;

The place that God loves best;

The place where love abides;

God bless our happy home.

BIRTH-MARKS

CHAPTER I.--"And to Every Seed His Own Body."

When we speak of birth-marks our mind first pictures a physical

impression, probably some bodily characteristic transmitted from an

ancestor; though mental habit or mind trait of ancestry is transmitted

with more consistent regularity than mere physical resemblance.

In a sense our ancestors in us are immortal; not because there is a

human imperishableness, but we are heirs to certain family peculiarities

and sometimes are afflicted with a restlessness that causes us to fan

pinionless wings to reach heights we never fathom and of which we

scarcely dream. My meaning can best be conveyed by example.

On a certain day in May a species of plover appear in great number on

the northern plains of British America. There they nest and rear their

young. The Indians take these birds when unfledged nestlings and make

pets of them; and as they grow pluck their sprouting pinions. By

environment they are robbed of all life suggesting the migration; yet

when the day of southward flight rolls round, the cripples grow restless

and seeking to rise on pinionless wing, end by climbing to a perch,

where for several days, unceasingly, they beat the air with stubby,

outstretched wings; uttering the while that plaintive whistle, which is

never heard, except when the bird is on its migratory flight.

----

The fire on the hearth, forgotten and dying, cast a faint glow

disclosing a home-like room of good proportions and two men seated at a

red deal table facing each other: Donald McDonald, a Scotch Presbyterian

preacher, and his son, Archibald Campbell, who though a gentleman

farmer, was a kinsman of the Campbells of Argyll. A casual observer

would have noted that the men were nervously anxious, watching, waiting,

perhaps praying for some one dear to both and ill in the adjoining

chamber.

The young farmer, as the silence is broken by a shrill wail of protest

from his for-some-time-expected son and heir, starts from his chair in a

clumsy effort at noiselessness and moves towards the bedroom door. His

companion, rising, lifts his hands as in benediction and prays aloud in

a tense, subdued voice, which seems to blend with the now lowered voice

of the whimpering babe. The father does not hear the old man; his

thoughts are of and for the mother and the babe; and unknown to him,

tears channel an unused course down his cheeks. So they stand for some

time; until the baby, hastily cared for and placed near his mother's

breast, grows quiet, having discovered there is more in life than a

wail; then the fat old mid-wife opening the door tells them that the

baby is asleep and they may see the mother for a moment.

They tiptoe into the other room and to her bedside, trying hard not to

make a noise, though the thick oak floor boards seem to creak as never

before. She holds out a hand to each. Her husband, trembling, bends and

kisses her quivering lips. She draws down the covers and he looks upon a

little red and wrinkled thing, that might almost sleep in comfort in his

hands--his boy! his only son!

For the first time he calls her "mother," saying: "Mother, we shall call

him McDonald Campbell, using your family name, he is more yours than

mine."

"No, neither by my name nor after you, Archibald, but John Calvin. He is

our first born; and the nurse says is without mark or blemish."

And the boy was called John Calvin Campbell.

----

Prior to the Rebellion, Donald McDonald of the McDonald Clan, had lived

in the vicinity of Fort William. At its close, with his family, a wife

and two daughters, he moved to a small fishing village on the North

Channel in Ulster, to which point most of his congregation had been

transported.

His son-in-law, Archibald Campbell, was born in Argyllshire, in 1740. In

1766, disregarding the protest of his family he married Mary McDonald,

whereupon his father sent word: "In this marriage you have disregarded

my advice and disobeyed me. Your wife, the daughter of Dissenter

McDonald, will not be received as one of my family. You are welcome to

come home when you wish; but it is hardly probable that you will visit

where your wife is not an honored guest."

In the spring of 1766, Donald McDonald and family, with some twenty

members of his small and more or less persecuted congregation, emigrated

to the Virginia Colony; and after several weeks spent in the Tidewater

country, moved westward and settled in the western foothills of the

Virginia Valley, in the vicinity of Jackson River Meeting House.

As Archibald Campbell's family continued to treat his wife as a stranger

and her friends and relatives, except a sister, had gone to America, she

found it very lonely. Seven months after her father and mother sailed

she received letters from them telling how satisfactory they found the

new life and what pleasant prospects the new country offered; and from

that day she persistently importuned and finally prevailed upon her

husband to sell their farm and join the colony.

The day before sailing they sent the effects they intended taking aboard

ship, including a young cow, two heifers and a coop of chickens,

surrendered possession of their home and were just leaving for the inn,

when Mr. Campbell's father, who had been watching them, drove up in the

family carriage and made them go home with him. There his son's wife was

at last received as a daughter. His mother and sisters met her at the

door and cried when they kissed her. They remained over night and when

the time came for sailing, the whole household accompanied them to the

ship.

His father in a voice husky with feeling, though he managed to keep back

his tears, said: "* * * Here is a letter of introduction to Peyton

Randolph of Virginia; he is not as loyal to the Crown as he might be but

he is a good man; and here is a wallet containing three hundred guineas.

This sum with the four hundred and fifty which your cousin paid for your

farm, will give you a fair start. I have paid the passage of Richard

Cameron; you know him, the son of the gatekeeper. He is to go with you

as an indentured servant; but I had first to promise his father that you

would see that the boy is educated and brought up in the Presbyterian

faith and when discharged from your service shall be given seventy

guineas. This sum I will provide, either by forwarding it to you or by

making provision for its payment in my will. I understand that there are

several servants and slaves aboard for sale. I would advise the purchase

of a slave; he becomes your absolute property, whereas the term of

service of an indentured servant seems always to expire at a most

inopportune time. Here are ten guineas to buy a pony for my grandson,

John Calvin. The little Dissenter is every inch a Campbell of Argyll.

God bless and keep you and your family safe on the voyage and in that

far land. I am sorry I ever said anything against your marriage, Mary is

as fine a woman as there is in Scotland. God bless you, boy!"