Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 12, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 863. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A WILD-OLIVE WREATH
BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.
Thronged to the gates is the little town of Elis on this the night
before the Olympic Games. Here are present not only men of every Grecian
city and province, but strange wanderers from the uttermost corners of
the world have assembled to view the games that honor the Ruler of the
Gods.
Far away across the plain--so far that the many-voiced tumult of the
crowded city is but an echo--in dark silence stand the sacred olive
groves. Against the grayish-green foliage gleam the white tents of the
athletes, chosen from all Greece, who are to compete on the morrow.
Close to where towers the vast temple of Olympian Zeus, the world-wonder
that Lidon made, is a little group of tents that shelter the men of
Croton, famed for the might of her athletes. One of all the competitors
lies wakeful. Dion, the son of Glaucus, gazes from his couch with
wide-open eyes out into the night, sees the glimmer of the stars through
the flickering leaves, listens to the whisper of the boughs overhead,
and sleeps not. On the morrow he, a youth of eighteen, is to run in the
dolichos, the hardest race of the games. His breath comes in gasps and
the blood drums in the boy's ears as for the hundredth time in fancy he
runs his race. The horrible waiting, the strain of suspense, have
unnerved many an athlete more seasoned than Dion. A short hour before,
Hippomaches, the grizzled old trainer of Croton, had made a final visit
to see that all was well with his charges. Close on his departure came
Glaucus, the boy's father, a man well past three score, yet with massive
frame seemingly untouched by time as when, forty-four years ago, the
mighty Milo of Syracuse had fallen before him under such a deadly
cestus-stroke that the "blow of Glaucus" passed into a proverb. Dion,
who had inherited the slighter frame and almost girlish beauty of a
Thessalian mother, has always felt more of awe than affection for his
silent Lacedæmonian father, little knowing what a wealth of love for
his latest-born the grim old Spartan concealed under his impassive
coldness.
To-night Glaucus stands for long without speaking, gazing down at his
son, while the stern, unflinching eyes become very soft. Then, to the
amazement of Dion, the hand that for nine Olympiads had won the wreath
from the world's mightiest rests on his yellow hair, tenderly as a
woman's.
"Dion, my son," and the deep voice trembles a little, "thou knowest how
that our blood has ever brought glory to Croton. That the statues of thy
grandfather, thy father, and thy two brothers all stand in this grove
among the winners of Olympiads. Now thy turn hath come. Oh, my son, my
son, for the love thy father bears thee, for the honor of city and
blood, win the wreath to-morrow!"--and Glaucus is gone.
Through the black tree-trunks steals a wavering glow from where the lone
priestess of Hestia tends the eternal flame that forever burns on the
Prytaneum. From either side of Dion's tent he hears the deep, regular
breathing of his twin brothers, men of tremendous strength and stature
like to their father, who have won fame almost equal to his--one as a
wrestler, the other as a boxer. Veterans are they in many a hard-fought
contest at the great games--Olympic, Pythian, Nemean, and Isthmian--and,
certain of success, rest untroubled by any feverish imaginings.
Dion's thoughts go back to that Olympiad in which his brothers scored a
double victory for Croton. Before the silent multitude that day Glaucus
blessed his sons for the glory they had brought him.
Every honor was heaped on the winners that Greece had to bestow. World
poets and singers gave of their genius to adorn the names of the sons of
Glaucus. Phidias himself made them immortal in snowy marble. The journey
homeward was one long series of triumphs; and when at last the
Olympiad-winners reached distant Croton, a breach was made through the
solid masonry of the city wall for their entry, no mere gateway
sufficing. Met by the assembled Council of Croton, they were formally
installed in the Prytaneum as guests of the city for life.
And Dion, still thrilling at the remembrance of that day, falls asleep.
In the gray hour just before dawn Hippomaches rouses the boy from an
uneasy slumber, and then with the clear oil rubs out every trace of
stiffness from the lithe polished limbs of his charge. The nude youth
stands in his manly beauty like a statue to Speed carved in ivory, his
white skin crimson-tinged where the friction has brought the warm blood
to the surface, while the coiling muscles ripple with every movement
across the slim sinewy frame, from which years of training have taken
away every ounce of useless fat.
"Ah, my lad," exclaims the old trainer, admiringly, as he gives the
white back a farewell pat, "you are fit to-day to run a brave race for
old Croton; and forget not all I have taught you!"
Dion dresses, and after a hurried meal proceeds to the temple, there to
take the oath of the games--that he is qualified to run, and will use no
guile in his race. Thence they go to the Metroön, rich with its
treasures of art, to await the triple trumpet-note that shall announce
the dolichos. For there are three races to be run this day--two short
ones, the aulos and diaulos, and lastly the terrible dolichos, in which
the runner covers the course twenty times. During the weary waiting
Hippomaches heartens the boy by stories of the performances of his
grandfather and father in Olympiads long past. The sun is well up before
the first races are over, and the shrill trumpet-tones give the signal
for the last of the running events.
At the northwestern corner of the Altis, by the station-entrance that
only judges and competitors are privileged to use, the two separate, and
Hippomaches hastens away to take his place among the men of Croton, who
have their station near the base of the hill Kronion. Dion, with a crowd
of other competitors, passes through the vaulted tunnel between long
lines of brazen Zanes, and finds himself on the stadion in the full
glare of the early sunlight. The heights around are thronged far as the
eye can see with a vast crowd. To-day Dion runs before an assembled
world. The long straight expanse of the stadion stretches before him. At
either end are sunken slabs of white marble. Ten times must a runner
touch each block to cover the full twenty courses. High above the stone
which marks both start and finish are ranged the ten Hellenodikæ, the
judges, while on the opposite side the white-faced priestess of Demeter
Chamyrne sits alone--the only woman whose eyes may behold the games.
A great hush has fallen on the multitude as the competitors take the
places assigned them by lot. It is broken by the voice of the herald.
"Let him that knows of any stain on the life or blood of a competitor
speak now!" it thunders. A moment of tense silence, and then----"Let
every runner place his feet on the mark!" echoes along the hill-side.
Each nude figure bends forward; a clear trumpet-note, and they are away,
a rushing mass of bodies that gleam in the sunlight.
A little apart from the crowd in the seats of honor sit Glaucus, his
twin sons--whose events do not come until late afternoon--and
Hippomaches, the trainer.
"'Tis an easy game, this running," remarks one of the twins, the boxer,
a little disdainfully.
"I say to you, oh winner with the cestus," Hippomaches responds,
sternly, "that the most grievous blows on the palæstra are not to be
compared with the suffering of the last five courses of the dolichos!"
But Glaucus hears nothing of this, nothing of the ejaculations and
murmurs of excitement, pleasure, and disappointment that sound from all
the throng. But for one thing has he eyes--a slim lithe figure far in
the rear of the others, yet which moves with a smooth effortless gait
like the swoop of a swallow. His iron grip tightens like a vise on the
trainer's shoulder. "I know little of contests wherein men trust to
their feet," he mutters. "Why lags the boy so far behind? He--he is not
losing heart?"
"Watch the first turning, O Glaucus, and thou wilt see why Dion holds
back," Hippomaches answers, grimly. "'Tis the bitter stadia that comes
last by which thy son's courage will be proven."
Now the crowd of runners are at the end of the first course. The madness
of the race is upon most of the novices. Forgetting the long stadia that
come after, they strain every muscle to be the first to touch the white
stone, and, instantly turning, retrace their course. In the wild jostle
that results, Polymnestor, the Platæan runner, is thrown headlong, and
though he rises instantly, and limpingly follows the others, never is
the lost ground regained. A little group of the older runners, including
Dion, who races with all the judgment of a veteran, have held back, and
now, avoiding the returning rush, complete the course with no danger of
interference, and are soon close upon the heels of the leaders.
It is to this little group that the knowing ones look for the winner.
There is Philoctetes, the Spartan, a grim, black-bearded man in the
prime of life, who won the dolichos at the last Olympiad. Near him are
formidable rivals--Listhenes, Athens's speediest runner, who defeated
Philoctetes by a desperate effort at the recent Nemean Games, and
Antenor of Corinth, the winner of the event at the Pythian Games, is
just at his shoulder. Then come two runners from distant provinces in
Asia, who are rumored to have done marvellous racing over their native
stadia. Back of them all is Dion, with the smouldering flame in his eyes
and the long graceful stride. At the end of the second course the same
scene of confusion is repeated, and two more runners go down. Stadion
after stadion are traversed, and slowly the leaders drop back. By the
end of the tenth the six that had brought up the rear are now in the
van. Another course, and they begin to draw away from those who have
exhausted their strength during the first half of the race. At last
there are but five stadia more--the stadia in which the real race is
run, the stadia that are the supreme test of a runner's courage and
endurance.
Hippomaches tugs at his grizzled beard excitedly. "Fourteen Olympian
dolichoi have I seen run in my day," he exclaims to Glaucus, "but never
a faster than this. Flesh and blood cannot stand that pace much longer;
some one will drop soon, and--the gods send it be not our Dion!"
Philoctetes is in the lead. His teeth are clinched, and the foam lies
white on his black beard. A fit embodiment is he of the grim
Lacedæmonian spirit which is yet to dominate all Greece. Faster and
faster he runs, hoping to exhaust his rival from hated Athens--none
other does he fear. A deep-throated roar of encouragement rises from the
tiers of stern-faced, impassive Spartans as their champion flashes past
them. Shrill cries come from the excitable Greeks of the Asiatic
provinces as they cheer on their representatives, who are beginning to
waver. But it is vain. Very different is an Olympic dolichos from any
race of the provinces, and though struggling desperately, they drop
back, unable longer to stand the tremendous strain. One stadion, two
stadia, are passed, and the third begun, nor does Philoctetes falter
aught in his even, rapid gait. Right at his shoulder glare the eyes of
Listhenes, who would gladly give his life this day that Athens might
win. There is a great hush as the runners traverse the third course. The
supreme moment of the race is drawing nigh. All in a moment Antenor the
Corinthian, who has held the third place just ahead of Dion, plunges
forward in the very midst of a stride, and falls to the ground with the
bright blood gushing from his mouth--his last dolichos run.
"Dion! Dion! See our Dion!" roar the men of Croton; for the boy is
gaining. Inch by inch the gap between him and the leaders lessens, and
soon Listhenes hears a sobbing breath at his ear, and knows that there
is another to dispute the victory with Athens and Sparta.
"'Tis thine own son, O Glaucus!" cried Hippomaches, clinching his hands.
And indeed the boy's features have changed. On the white drawn face
appears that same intense look of deadly earnestness that made the
fiercest boxer fear to stand before Glaucus in the old days. Fatigue,
pain, danger, death itself count for naught; the race! the race! and his
city's honor! are all that Dion knows. They touch the white stone, and
turn back for the last course almost in line.
Back and forth among the hills roll the waves of sound, "Athens!"
"Athens!" "Philoctetes for Sparta!" But high over all echoes the cry of,
"Croton! Croton! Speed thee, O Croton!" Unhearingly Dion runs. There is
a sickening pain in his breast, a taste of blood in his mouth; but the
boy's will yet upholds the overtaxed body, dead from the waist
downwards, and the gap between him and the leaders widens not.
Far, oh, so terribly far, in the distance is the white stone, the goal
of all his life. Above it are the calm uneager faces of the ten
Hellenodikæ and the pale priestess, who gazes down at the struggling
trio with unseeing eyes from which a thousand sacrifices have seared all
of human tenderness. Nearer and nearer the snowy gleam approaches, and
still the three runners are almost in line, with Dion a little behind.
Suddenly from out of the misty cloud of faces that wavers before the
boy's hot unwinking eyes Dion sees his father's, the stern features all
convulsed, hears a voice cry brokenly, with a world of anguished
pleading in its tone,
"On, Dion! on! Oh, my son--for your city!"
"Dion! Dion! for your city!" echoes the mighty voice of thrice ten
thousand men--and at the cry the boy's face comes up even with the black
beard of Philoctetes, the tense countenance of the Athenian.
Neck by neck, stride for stride the three stagger on, and the finish is
but a few steps away. The multitude is mad with excitement. Even the
Hellenodikæ forget their stoicism, and lean forward, for who touches the
stone first, if by only a hair's-breadth, is the winner. Then above the
deep roar of the crowd sounds a voice like a trumpet-peal, the
tremendous voice of Hippomaches, wisest of the sons of men in every wile
of the stadion.
"The finish! Dion, the finish! Remember!--Now!"
Through the dimness that is slowly clouding Dion's senses the voice
pierces. Almost in the last stride of the race the boy, with arms
extended, throws himself forward like a diver, and the hands,
outstretched, are on the goal-stone a fraction of a second before the
feet of the others. And with the feeling of the smooth coolness of the
marble at his finger-tips comes a great darkness, and Dion knows nothing
more until he finds himself standing in the temple of Zeus on the
chryselephantine table that Zeuxis made--the most beautiful in the
world. Around him are the strong arms of his father. He hears the
pealing chant, "Tenella! Tenella!" "Hail to the victor!" and on his
forehead feels the light pressure of the hardly won olive wreath that
crowns him before the world the winner of the dolichos.
GRANDFATHER'S ADVENTURES.
BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.
"Grandpop," said Ralph Pell, "a little while ago I asked Sam if he had
seen many sharks in his lifetime, and he said that he saw more sharks
the night he first joined your vessel than he ever saw before or since.
When I asked him to tell me the story he shut up as tight as a clam. Do
you know what he means?"
"Yes, Ralph, I know what he refers to, and I'll tell you the yarn. It is
a good many years ago since I was made proud by receiving as my first
command a fine, tight little bark called the _Northern Light_. I carried
out a general cargo to Matanzas, on the north side of Cuba, and loaded
sugar for my return voyage.
"The day that I received my clearance papers and was ready to sail, our
agent, a Spanish gentleman of the name of Gonzales, invited me to take a
farewell dinner.
"The time spent at the table was exceedingly pleasant, and after the
dessert had been served we adjourned with the ladies to the veranda for
our coffee, which was served by a powerfully built negro who answered to
the name of Antonio. I have often thought how different that poor
slave's life would have been had I not asked for a second cup.
"As Antonio extended the tray toward me he struck its edge against my
chair, and emptied the hot black liquid over my white duck coat and
trousers.
"My host jumped to his feet in a passion.
"'You worthless black scoundrel!' he cried, 'I'll cure you of your
carelessness." Then he turned to me, and with an air of great politeness
said, 'I ask you pardon, Señor Capitan, for my slave's miserable
clumsiness.
"Immediately following, two of the plantation overseers, whom he had
called, dragged the negro on to the lawn before us, stripped off his
jacket and shirt, and produced short cruel-looking whips.
"'Señor,' I said, 'I beg of you to pardon him this time; it was purely
an accident, for which I excuse him.'
"'I cannot allow your generosity to be taken advantage of, Señor
Capitan,' replied my host. 'You have received an indignity under my
roof, and I must render you ample proof of my regret.'
"At a sign from the master, the two plantation hands were about to ply
their whips upon the back of the house slave, when, jumping over the
railing to the lawn, I interposed between the negro and the overseers,
bidding them to hold. My interference angered our agent, for he
approached me, and said, haughtily:
"'The Señor Capitan will remember that he is not master here, that this
is my slave, and he will oblige me by not concerning himself in the
management of my affairs.' Then he added, sneeringly, 'Besides, I
understand that Yankee shipmasters are not so humane in the treatment of
their crews as to be shocked because a clumsy slave receives a sample of
what American captains enjoy to inflict on their own men for little or
no provocation!'
"'Señor Gonzales,' I answered, hotly, 'your brutality is only equalled
by the discourtesy and contempt that you show to me as your guest. I
demand an immediate apology for your language in the presence of these
overseers and this slave, before whom you have insulted me!'
"As I ended he snatched a whip from one of the men, and raised it as
though to strike me, but changing his mind, he half turned and slashed
it across the naked shoulders of the negro.
"Before they could seize him, Antonio lurched forward, struck his
master a stinging blow with his fist, and the next instant had scaled
the garden wall and plunged into the cane-fields close by.
"Disgusted with the way in which my visit had ended, and scorning, under
the circumstances, to make use of a conveyance belonging to the
plantation, I left the grounds without seeing the señora and her
daughters, and made my way to the plaza in the city. Later on I made my
way to the wharf where I had ordered the bark's boat to meet me.
"Several times, as the men pulled easily toward the ship through the hot
night, I thought I heard, between the intervals of the strokes, a sound
like that of labored breathing and the noise of broken water just
astern; but in the darkness that prevailed I could see nothing, and
thinking perhaps that it was caused by the sharks which abounded in the
harbor, I paid no further heed to it.
"We had run alongside the bark, and I had stood up in the stern-sheets
to leave the boat, when a black hand reached out of the water and seized
the gunwale of the boat; then as one of the sailors uttered a note of
alarm and raised his oar threateningly, an agonized negro's face was
lifted above the rail, and a pitiful voice cried in Spanish, 'Save
Antonio, master!'
"I didn't like the idea of stealing another man's property, but I
trembled to think of his fate should he be caught, so I took the poor
fellow on board the _Northern Light_, and when morning came I lifted
anchor and carried him away from cruelty and slavery forever. To cut him
adrift from the past I rechristened him 'Sam.'"
PRACTICAL GOLF.
BY W. G. _van_ TASSEL SUTPHEN.
(_In Five Papers._)
III.--THROUGH THE GREEN, AND BUNKER PLAY.
The "green" is used generically to designate the whole course,
specifically it is the putting green. Now we know that after the
tee-shot we must "address" and play the ball _as we find it_. We are not
permitted to tee it again, nor must we touch it with anything except a
club, under penalty of one stroke. The choice of club naturally depends
upon the distance from the hole, but more especially upon the "lie" of
the ball. Should it be resting cleanly on close firm turf, we may be
able to use the driver again; but, generally speaking, our American
courses are too rough and cuppy to permit the employment of so fragile
an instrument as the wooden driver. On some of the English "greens," and
notably Westward Ho, the lies are so good that one's ball seems to be
always teed, and proficiency with the wooden club is consequently at a
premium. But on ordinary courses the "lie" is pretty sure to be more or
less bad, and the play-club, as the driver is sometimes called, must be
laid aside in favor of a coarser and more effective weapon. Speaking
roughly, the brassy is first choice, followed by cleek, medium iron,
lofter, mashie, and niblick, the last being used only in the most
desperate of straits, and where nothing more is expected than to get the
ball upon the course again.
[Illustration: THE WAGGLE.]
The fascination of golf lies in its variety and difficulty. If it were
only a question of holing balls, one long hole laid out over a smooth
meadow would be all that would be necessary. But it would be very
monotonous and uninteresting kind of work, and certainly not golf. Given
six or nine or eighteen holes of different lengths, and the task at once
becomes interesting through the introduction of the element of variety.
But a simple variation in distance is not enough; the game is still too
easy. We must have difficulties to avoid or overcome, and these
difficulties, lumped under the general name of "hazards," may be either
natural or artificial. The idea is that these hazards should be so
placed as to punish only poor strokes, and that with perfect play we may
avoid them altogether. But for present purposes we may ignore their
existence, and assume that the way is clear, and that our only
difficulty is the particular position, or "lie," of the ball.
Now there are many kinds of bad lies, but the one oftenest encountered
is the "cupped" ball. Here the ball is lying in a shallow hole or
depression, making it very difficult to get the club well under it. If
the cup be not too deep we may take a brassy, but the stroke will differ
slightly from the regular full drive. It should be what is called a
"jerked" shot, although the "jerk" has nothing to do with the swing
proper. That must be as smooth and regular as possible, but it may be
permissible to keep the arms in a trifle, and thereby bring the club up
straighter. The principal difference is that the club head cuts into the
ground instead of sweeping cleanly over it. The ball is struck in
precisely the same manner, and the jerk is simply the after impact of
the club head upon the turf. This stroke is particularly effective with
the iron clubs, and indeed many players use it for all their iron shots.
It certainly drives the ball almost if not quite so far as the clean
swing; but the author of the _Art of Golf_ thinks that its constant use
tends to unsteadiness at the tee. Nevertheless, it is the only effective
treatment for a cupped ball, and it must be learned. When playing the
stroke do not think about the jerk. Swing down so as to nip in between
the lip of the cup and the ball, and let the club head make its own
explanations to the ground. Should the ball be badly cupped you may have
to take the mashie or even the niblick to get it out; but the cleek will
generally do the work if you hit accurately.
A hanging ball is one that is lying upon a slope that runs down in the
direction of the proposed drive. It looks hard to handle, but the
difficulty is purely imaginary. The brassy, or any other club whose face
is laid back, will easily raise it into the air if you swing properly
and trust to the club to do the work. The beginner is apt to think that
he must make an extra turn with his wrists to get the ball up, but he is
mistaken. Place the club so that it rests naturally on the slope behind
the ball, and swing precisely as though you were at the tee, and the
"spoon" of the club will do the rest.
[Illustration: GETTING OUT OF A BUNKER.]
Balls lying on a side hill, whether above or below you, are best played
with an easy swing, and with the grip of the right hand comparatively
loose. Long grass is very annoying because it interferes with the swing.
You will have to take the lofter or mashie, and play with a firm grip.
But do not "press" or try to strike extra hard. Generally speaking, the
worse the lie the more particular you should be to swing and not to hit.
Accuracy and not strength is the essential thing. And get well under the
ball.
Coming now to hazards and bunkers, it may be said that bunkers are,
properly speaking, sand-pits; while a hazard is any permanent feature of
the course, such as briar-islands, roads, water, trees, or fences. Of
course you will try to avoid these difficulties, but to be successful in
doing so you must be reasonably sure of always getting your ball well
into the air. A ball trundling along the ground may often make more
yards of distance than a nicety lofted one, but then the "green" must be
comparatively smooth and clear. If there is a brook or a fence in the
way, it must be cleared on the fly, or you will find yourself in
trouble. Now the lofter and mashie, from their shape of head, tend to
raise the ball higher in the air than the straighter-faced clubs, and
the novice should especially cultivate the use of the first-named. If
the ball be struck clean and true, it may be lofted higher than is
absolutely necessary, but that is better than too low. There is a
particular stroke, called the high loft, but that need not concern us
now. Use the regular driving swing, and get well under the ball.
Being fairly in a bunker or hazard is a painful situation, and the one
thing to do is to get out with all possible expedition. If you are in a
bunker proper, or sand-pit, you will have to take the niblick or mashie,
and you must remember that you are not allowed to "sole" the club--that
is, rest it on the ground as in the ordinary address. The idea is that
the mark made on the sand by the club head is an unfair guide for the
eye, and therefore if you touch sand you lose a stroke. It is often
effective in a sand-bunker to aim at a point a little behind the ball,
rather than at the "gutty" itself. The club cuts into the yielding sand,
and, as it were, explodes the ball into the air and out of danger. An
experiment or two will make this clear to you.
With the ball in an ordinary hazard, play to get it back on the course,
rather than to make any extra distance by a little extra effort. If you
"press," you will probably leave yourself worse off than before. In a
"score" game a player has the option of lifting his ball out of a
difficulty of any description and teeing it _behind_ the same, the
penalty being two strokes. Of course you must use your judgment as to
when this course is the part of wisdom.
[Illustration: BEGINNING OF HALF-IRON SHOT.]
In match play, where the scoring is by holes, a lost ball means the loss
of the hole. In medal or score play the player must return as nearly as
possible to the point where the ball was struck, and tee a new one, the
penalty being one stroke.
There are several other contingencies noted in the rules of the game; it
is worth while to procure a copy of these and study them carefully.
[Illustration: A HAZARD.]
It is to be remembered that all of the foregoing refers to play through
the green when the hole is at an indefinite distance away, and we are
simply trying to drive the ball the greatest distance possible. But in
playing out of a hazard it is often advisable to use what is called, in
approaching the hole, a half or a three-quarter swing. Roughly speaking,
if the full distance covered by your regular drive be not desirable,
make the _length_ of your swing shorter in proportion, but do not try to
hit a little more easily. Distance is measured by the length of the
swing and not by the force applied. Let the left wrist be taut; and,
finally, _Keep your eye on the ball_.
UNDER THE GREEN-WOOD TREE.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
"Not going to the country, did you say, mamma?" and sorrowing faces
accompanied the words.
"Not this summer, my dears."
"Then if we are _not_ going, I know just what to do."
"What's your plan, my son?"
"Simply to _make_ country for ourselves here at home."
"How, Jack? I don't quite understand," said his sister.
"Divide our big yard. You take both the side beds, and plant in them
whichever flowers you would most miss by staying home, and I will take
the back bed and surprise you with it."
"Oh, that will be fun! I'll plant one side full of daisies, and the
other just as full of buttercups. Then I can make all the daisy wreaths
I please, and find out who loves butter and who don't, just the same as
when we are up in the mountains."
John was a tree lover. It was his greatest joy to lie off with a
favorite book under wide-spreading branches. So he instantly began
devising what could be arranged to take a tree's place. He measured his
plot, and then set about collecting old brooms. When he had eighteen he
cut off the handles close to the brush, and then he sank them one foot
in the ground. From the top of each handle he drew stout cord to the
back fence, where, having driven some nails, he firmly fastened each
cord.
Then he raked the earth down about half a foot, and sowed in a straight
line from base to base of the handles a package of Japanese hops. His
mother had told him this had most luxuriant foliage and was fine for
trellises. Nothing hurt it--neither heat, drought, nor insects. However,
John carefully watched the seeds' growth and watered the tender shoots
frequently.
While the vines were growing, as he was somewhat of a carpenter, he made
a low divan on which to throw a rug and pine pillows for the use of
visitors who did not care to lie on the soft tan-bark, which served as
carpet for his cool restful greenroom, and which throughout all the hot
sultry summer gave thorough satisfaction.
Entrance was made at the extreme right, space for which was allowed at
time of building. This part was kept well sodded, as the effect was
prettier when viewed from the house. It also was in pleasing contrast
to the dark brown of the tan-bark, and made the whole more effective in
every way.
As for John's sister, she rarely missed the country, for she so very
much enjoyed the freedom of gardening on her own account--weeding,
watering, making wreaths and bouquets for her friends and herself.
But, as often happens to older gardeners, she met with disappointment in
regard to her buttercup bed. Beyond the first few weeks they refused to
bloom, so one day they were all dug up and verbena roots planted
instead. These fairly ran riot, and the fantastic gay coloring had the
veriest kaleidoscopic effect until frost came and out-of-door gardening
was over.
THREE OF US KNOW.
BY MARIE L. VAN VORST.
Who are my playfellows?
Wait, you shall see;
Sometimes a little bird,
Sometimes a bee.
All through the summer world
Gayly we go.
Where is the greenest close,
Where is the sweetest rose,
Three of us know.
Bee seeks the rose's heart,
Bird seeks the tree,
I seek a little brook
Clear as can be.
It singeth all day long
Sweetly and low,
Ballad of sun and star.
What its song-secrets are
Three of us know.
Bee takes the honey home
To the Queen bee;
Bird seeks a nest that hides
High in the tree;
I seek a little house
Where sweet vines grow.
What in God's world is best--
Trees, flowers, home and rest--
Three of us know.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.
BY MARION HARLAND
CHAPTER VIII.
"Running for her life" is not too strong an expression to describe
Flea's flight. She had had experience of the temper of the man she had
injured to the extent of her ability. She believed that he would kill
her, in his fury, if he overtook her. With the instinct of a hunted hare
she made for the thickest part of the woods, tearing through matted
jungles of cat-briers and saplings, redoubling her speed as she heard a
shout behind her. She had run a mile when she stopped for breath. Her
hat was gone, and the muslin spencer worn under a sleeveless jacket,
because of the late warm weather, was torn into ribbons. Her arms and
face were bleeding; her heart beat so loudly that she could hear nothing
else distinctly; but she fancied, presently, that she distinguished from
afar off the noise of somebody crashing through the undergrowth. She
bethought herself instantly that her flight must have left a wide trail
in the forest. Winged by terror, she dashed on, but she no longer ran
straight. With an undefined idea, gained from reading Cooper's novels,
of losing trail in the water, she directed her course toward the swamp
lying on both sides of the creek near where it emptied into the river.
She could wade for a mile there, if necessary. Once in the depths of the
swamp, she could defy anybody to find her unless he had a blood-hound to
guide him. She had read and heard of blood-hounds, but had never seen
one.
In her blind haste she miscalculated distances and direction, becoming
aware of the blunder as the woods grew lighter. Long level lines of
light from the early sunsetting hit her like arrows shot from behind the
leafless trees. Where was she going? If she kept on, where would she
come out?
A new sound smote her ears. It was not the shout of the pursuer or the
bay of the hound which her imagination had conjured up. As it arose and
wailed upon the still air, she fancied something familiar in it.
Creeping cautiously nearer the road, which she espied through the
brushwood, she saw first the white top of a "tumbler-cart" crossing a
bridge laid over an arm of the creek, then the long ears of a mule,
lastly her father's one man-servant, Dick, walking alongside of the
mule, his hand on the thill of the cart. As he walked he uplifted voice
and soul in sacred song:
"An' mus' dis body die?
Dis martial frame de-cay?
An' mus' dese actyve lim's o' mine--"
"Min' yo' eye dar, y'u ole buzzard!" as the mule touched the driver's
cowhide boots with his hoof--
"Lie mould-ing in de clay?"
The truth flashed upon Flea. Chaney's sister, who had belonged to a
planter living ten miles further down the river, had died a week ago,
and word had been sent to Chaney that "a right smart chance o' clo'es
an' blankets an' things" had been left to her by the deceased. Mrs.
Grigsby had asked her husband that morning at breakfast if Dick could
have a mule and a cart and a day's holiday, in order to fetch home his
wife's legacy. The master had given his consent readily, and Dick was
now on his way home, bearing his goods with him. He was, likewise,
charged with all the particulars of his sister-in-law's sickness and
death, with which he had it in his mind to regale his faithful Chaney.
Behind him were the fertile low grounds; before him the road stretched
straight into the heart of swamp and forest.
"I'm goin' home!"
wailed the chorus.
"I'm going home! I'm goin' ho-o-me!
I'm goin' ho-o-oome, to die no mo'!"
[Illustration: FLEA CREPT IN OVER THE BACKBOARD.]
Crouching low, and treading as lightly as a panther, Flea quitted the
bushes, stole up behind the cart as Dick threw up his head, to open his
mouth back to the ears in the final howl of "ho-o-o-ome," and crept in
over the backboard, unseen and unsuspected by the musician.
A feather bed filled the body of the cart, and into this the fugitive
sank, pulling the "things" over her. How soft and how safe it felt! and
how tired! tired! _tired!_ she was, now that she had stopped running and
need not fear pursuit. She had eaten nothing since breakfast, and was
giddy and faint. She was very wet, too. In emptying the bucket upon her
tormentor she had drenched herself to the skin.
Flea had not thought of going home when she ran out of the school-house.
She would have said that she dared not meet her father and mother after
what she had done. Maddened by her wrongs, she was conscious of but two
impulses--to revenge herself upon the guilty party, and then to get out
of sight of everybody. The best thing that could happen to her, she told
herself, would be to die in the woods, of starvation and exposure, and
to be found there by a search party sent out by her parents. Everybody
would cry over her lifeless remains, and the wicked cause of her death
would be driven out of the county. Perhaps he might be hanged for her
murder. He would certainly be the victim of remorse all the rest of his
days.
These thoughts had shot through her mind in little bits at a time while
she pushed through the thickets. There had been no time for connected
plans or expectations. But now, lying secure in her dark and downy nest,
she concluded that, after all, home was the only refuge for her. Her
shoulders and arms were naked, her skirts were wringing wet, her shoes
heavy with swamp mud, her legs were torn by briers and thorns, and her
head began to feel queer. Her brain swam and swung; her skull seemed to
be filled with boiling water which was trying to get out at her ears.
They were deafened by the sound of the boiling, and the steam pressed on
the back of her eyes. Her mouth was so dry that the surface of her
tongue "crazed," as crockery goes into tiny cracks when overheated.
Yes, home was the place for her. She would meet with punishment there.
In a strange half-sleep she heard herself whispering, "Not knowing the
things that shall befall me there, save that bonds and afflictions await
me." Rest and comfort could never be hers again. But home was better
than the wide, wide, wicked world.
Awaking herself with an effort, she set in order what she should say
when she got home. Her father would not believe that she had lied and
cheated. But what would he say to the revenge that began to taste less
sweet than at first? He would have to pay for Mr. Tayloe's spoiled
clothes. She might even have to go to court to answer for her misdeed.
Her spirit leaped up again at the thought. She would tell her story
boldly to judge and jury, and show what had been done by "the wretch who
was a disgrace to his cloth."
That sounded fine; but did "cloth" always mean a broadcloth coat? She
had a notion that it was only "cloth" when black and on a clergyman's
back. At any rate, she would defy the little monster. The memory of his
grinning face and insulting tone stirred up the mire and dirt anew.
The cart had no springs. It jolted and bumped over the rough road, and
rocked up and down: but she was used to the ways of the tumbler-cart,
and Dick's singing was making her drowsy again. She would put off
thinking until she got rested. Perhaps by then her ears would roar less
and her head stop aching.
Creak and rumble! Seesaw! and fainter and further away sounded Dick's
monotonous wail--
"We'll pass over Jerdan!
How happy we shall be!
We'll pass over Jerdan,
And shout de jubilee."
Snail Snead was singing that tune yesterday to what the girls said were
"wicked words." They got into Flea's head now, and would not get out:
"We'll pass over Jerdan,
An' drink sweeten'd tea;
We'll passa over Jerdan,
An' climb the 'simmon-tree."
She smiled foolishly in saying them over.
Cart and song had come to a halt. Flea put her eye to a crevice in the
cover. It was Miss Em'ly on horseback, a mounted groom leading a third
horse. Dick pulled off his whity-brown wool hat, and scraped his foot.
"Howdy, Uncle Dick!" called the sweet, shrill voice. "Have you seen Mr.
Tayloe anywhere?"
"Naw, my mistis, I 'ain' see him nowhar. Is you los' him? I moughty
sorry."
His eyes twinkled, and Miss Em'ly snapped her whip at him, blushing and
laughing.
"Shut your mouth, Uncle Dick! He was to go riding with me, and he isn't
at the school-house. If you should see him, tell him I couldn't wait for
him. Good-by."
She gave her horse a smart cut and galloped down the road.
"He is looking for me all this time!" thought Flea, fearfully. Her teeth
chattered, and she pulled a blanket up over her.
Another adventure was in store for her at the next turn of the highway.
Mr. Tayloe stepped out of the edge of the woods and hailed Dick. Flea
could have thought his eye met hers as she peeped through the hole in
the cover. He stood within six feet of the cart. His hat was the only
dry thing he had on. His blue coat, buff waistcoat, and gray trousers
were discolored and streaked with wet. "Beggars' ticks" and "Spanish
needles," sticking to his clothes, told of a tramp through marsh and
field. He looked cross and ugly and fierce.
"Aren't you Grigsby's man?" he asked, harshly.
Dick touched his hat, but did not take it off. "Yas, suh. I has de honor
for to be Mister Grigsby's body-sarvant! At yo' sarvice, suh!"
The superior quality of his manners did not impress the white man. His
tone was more offensive than before.
"You tell him he must come up to the house to-night. I want to see him
on particular business. Do you hear?"
"Yas, suh!" Dick's roving gaze took in all the details of the forlorn
figure, and he grew exasperatingly polite. "You been fall in de creek,
'ain' you, suh? Carn't I give you a lif' home, suh? You mought happen to
meet somebody 'long de road. Miss Em'ly Duncombe, she done parss 'long
hyur, jes now, a-lookin' fur you. It's more'n likely she'll tu'n back at
de cross-roads. Lordy! dar's a moughty big dus' down yonder," arching
his hand over his eyes to make sure they did not deceive him. "Hit looks
mightily like dat's her now."
Flea had never heard the teacher swear until he flung a round and
abusive oath at the negro and plunged back into the woods. Sly Dick had
been morally certain that the fine gentleman would never in any
circumstances demean himself to become a passenger in a tumbler-cart. He
had not risked dampening his Chaney's "things" by the invitation, or it
would never have been given. Flea, half dead with dread lest it might be
accepted, felt the blood rush wildly from her heart to her head in the
relief of the escape, sank back upon the feather bed, and fainted away.
Dick plodded along the highway too full of wicked glee to sing any more
hymns. Twice he stopped in the middle of the road to laugh--a regular
darky "Ki-_yi_!" enjoyed by every atom of his being. Mr. Tayloe was very
unpopular with the Greenfield servants, and tales of his "high-handed,
low-down ways," had been repeated throughout the colored community. The
fall moon was high above the horizon when the tumbler-cart was driven up
to the kitchen door. Chaney bustled out with importance, becoming an
heiress in her own right, but with a decent show of indifference to her
own interests where those of her employers were concerned.
"'Ain' no time fur to tech dem things now!" she declared. "Marster's
sister done come from Philadelphy or Pennsylvany, or wharever 'tis. De
big pot's got to be put in de little one, you better b'lieve. Did you
git de baid [bed]?"
"Yas, an' a pyar o' blankets, an' a counterpin, an' a shawl, an' two
linsey-woolsey coats Dorkis never had on her back--an' I don' know what
else beside. Dars a chaney tea-pot an' sugar-dish. Jes you take a peep
in dar!"--leading the way to the back of the cart. "Put yo' han' inter
dat 'ar baid. Dem's fedders as is fedders!"
"The chamber" of the Grigsby house was ablaze with three candles and a
great fire upon the hearth. To escape from the heat of this last the
visitor, Mrs. McLaren, had drawn her chair to an open window. She was
two years older than her brother, and had worn black for ten years for
her only child, who had borne her name--Jean. Her husband, who had been
an invalid for fifteen years, had died only six months before this, her
first visit to Virginia. Her brother, of whom she was very fond, had
been to Philadelphia for a few days every summer since her marriage.
Against his wife's wish he had slipped "Jean" in after the high-sounding
name bestowed by her upon their second child. Mrs. Grigsby considered
her sister-in-law "right down hard favored," and indeed her reddish
hair, high cheek-bones, and prominent mouth robbed her of all claim to
beauty. She had, however, a sensible, kindly face, and looked and spoke
like a refined lady. She had arrived from Norfolk at three o'clock that
afternoon, and had seen all the children except her namesake.
"She had to stay for a while after school to do a sum, poor thing!" Bea
explained, with amiable unwillingness.
Mrs. Grigsby heaved her usual sigh over Flea's shortcomings. Good woman
and good mother though she was, she would not have been sorry to see Bea
in high favor with her rich aunt, even at the expense of her less
attractive sister. Bea would do her mother's training credit anywhere.
"Poor Flea," as her mother often lamented, "was nobody's pretty child,
and too odd for anything."
"Is she often out as late as this?" asked Mrs. McLaren. "Is it quite
safe for her to come home alone from school after sunset?"
Mrs. Grigsby repeated her sigh. "Flea takes after her father in
headiness," she remarked, in sickly jest.
Her husband paid no heed to the fling.
"If she is not in soon, I shall go to look after her," he said, peering
through the window at the darkening landscape. "Mr. Tayloe is an
excellent teacher, but, as you say, Jean, it is not right to keep a girl
out after dark. She wasn't kept in over the sum she did last night, was
she?"--looking at Bea. "I know that was right."
Bea was discreet and mysterious. "I didn't ask any questions, sir. I
only heard Mr. Tayloe say she must stay in for an hour after school."
Mrs. McLaren glanced at Dee. He sat upon a cricket in a corner near her,
apparently asleep; but at Bea's reply he unclosed his eyes in languid
surprise upon his sister.
"The laddie knows something he could tell, if he would," said his aunt,
laying her hand upon the bullet head.
"'Twould be tellin' tales out o' school," muttered the boy, reddening
bashfully. "If 'twouldn't, I could tell a heap o' things."
Mrs. McLaren's hand, passing gently over his head, was checked by
something she felt there.
"How came this big bump here?" she inquired. "Have you had a fall?"
"Naw,'m."
"A fight, perhaps, then?"
"Naw,'m."
She raised his chin to search his eyes.
"Would it be telling tales out of school to answer _that_ question?"
Dee nodded, got redder and more bashful.
"Ef you had a tole me, I'd 'a' rubbed it with operdildoc," said the
mother. "Boys that won't steddy mus' look for hard knocks."
"Does Felicia study?" pursued the visitor.
"I can't exac'ly say she don't steddy," returned the mother. "But she is
the greatest one fur gittin' inter scrapes--"
Her husband interrupted her again, as if he had not heard what she said.
"Study! She's the best scholar of her age I or you or anybody else ever
saw. She has more brains than all the rest of them put together. You'll
be proud of your name-child some of these days, Jean."
"How happens it then that she was kept in?" was the next and natural
question. "Perhaps she is not industrious?"
"She works like a horse!" came from Dee, who had laid his head back
against the wall, and sighed and turned white behind his freckles. The
boy looked ill.
Mr. Grigsby was troubled.
"I have had thoughts," he said, more hesitatingly than he was accustomed
to speak, "about Mr. Tayloe's management of that child. She's
high-strung and sensitive, and so little like most girls of her age,
that an ordinary teacher would not know how to get on with her. But she
learns so fast under him, and is so eager about her lessons, that it
doesn't seem wise for me--"
A piercing yell from without broke the sentence in the middle. Another
and another, with never a breath between, drew the whole party to the
back door, from which direction the screams had come.
The moonlight showed the cart and mule at the door of the kitchen, which
was built twenty yards or so from the house. The moon also showed Chaney
jumping up and down like a crazy thing at the back of the cart, and
screeching at the top of her lungs. Two children clutched her skirts and
screeched in sympathy.
"What is to pay out there?" shouted the master, angrily. "Stop that
noise!"
"Dar's somefin' 'live in dar, suh!" Dick called back in trembling
accents.
Mr. Grigsby stepped back into the house for a candle; his sister
followed him with another. He pulled aside the cover of the cart. Mrs.
McLaren held the light above his head, and leaned forward with him to
look in.
When Chaney had thought to thrust her hand into her feather bed, it had
encountered something that moved and moaned. That something now sat
upright and stretched out two naked arms encrusted with dried blood. A
voice nobody there would have known cried out: "Father! father! don't
let that man get me! He wants to _kill_ me."
Such was Mrs. McLaren's introduction to the namesake of whom she would
some day be proud.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.