Transcriber’s Note
Italic text displayed as: _italic_
Bold text displayed as: =bold=
IN GREEN AND WHITE—VOL. I.
X-MAS SKETCHES
FROM THE
Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
EDITED BY
EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER, ’94.
CONCORD, N. H.:
REPUBLICAN PRESS ASSOCIATION.
1893.
Copyrighted, 1893,
BY EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER.
[Illustration: Decoration]
CONTENTS.
MEDALLION OF OLD PINE Frontispiece
SUITE FOUR 1
OUR WINTER BIRDS 15
A NEW YEAR’S LEGACY 29
BY PROXY 47
IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN 61
CHRISTMAS EVE,—A FANTASY 87
CLANCY’S HOME-COMING 103
MUSIC HATH CHARMS 115
THE SPRIG’S BALL 129
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB 145
JUST A WORD.
Just a word in regard to this little book, which we venture to add
to the more pretentious undergraduate literature. The sketches and
illustrations are those which appeared in the Christmas number
of The “LIT.” We do not present them as masterpieces, but merely
as representing the present literary work in college along the
line of fiction. Several of the stories are their author’s “first
appearance,” and the thumb-nail sketches are the first attempt, we
believe, at college magazine illustrating. It is hoped that other
volumes may in time be added, forming an “In Green and White”
series. If this vest-pocket volume serve as a souvenir of The “LIT.”
and an incentive to story-telling, it is well.
E. O. G.
HANOVER, N. H.,
December, ’93.
SUITE FOUR.
SUITE FOUR.
H. C. PEARSON.
[Illustrations by E. V. Spooner.]
Ted Tracy sat in his little back room, gazed out of the window, and
sighed. The sighing was not consequential upon the gazing, though it
might well have been, for four walls of windows about a roofed-in
court, with a grey sky sullenly peering in three stories higher, does
not form a remarkably cheerful spectacle; not even when compared with
a ten-by-twelve room containing as its sole ornaments a folding bed,
a commode, three chairs, and a mirror. But Ted’s usually buoyant soul
would have risen above these surroundings, as easily as the curls of
his cigarette smoke; something much more depressing squeezed out that
sigh.
Six months before, this young graduate of a fresh-water college had
come to Boston and entered upon the twin pursuits of journalism and
agriculture. As a newspaper man, he had so far succeeded in earning
the munificent salary of $6 per week, which almost paid for his room,
his laundry, and his cigarettes. As a farmer, he had sown with signal
success one of the finest lines of wild oats in the city, and was
now finding some difficulty in their gathering. His only relative—the
rich old uncle common to all fairy tales—had hitherto settled the
periodical deficits in his accounts with unfailing good humor and
abundant generosity; but now he had suddenly thrown up his role of
good genius, objecting, perhaps, to being used as a patent reaper.
[Illustration: Man looking down]
So Ted sat and gazed and sighed; sometimes, to vary the monotony, he
swore. The French dancers from the “Black Crook,” who roomed next
door, were screeching some Parisian street song as grotesque and
inharmonious as their acrobatics. The parrots and macaws in the bird
store down stairs answered them back with scarcely more discordance;
and between them Ted felt sure his environment would drive him to
suicide or drink.
Before he had time to grasp either horn of the dilemma, however,
a knock at the door ushered in one of his few welcome visitors.
The little dark chorus girl in “Venus,” who roomed with her mother
two doors beyond, was pretty enough to attract Ted’s attention the
first time they met, and modest and womanly enough in a sweet,
old-fashioned way to retain, not only his earnest admiration,
but his hearty respect. This afternoon she was bubbling over with
happiness, so much so that she never noticed Ted’s lugubrious
expression.
“Oh! Mr. Tracy,” she began at once, “I’m to have a part to-night.
Mr. Rice and Miss Tinnie have had a row, and I’m to do Absurdaria.
You know I’ve understudied it all the season; and, Mr. Tracy, mother
wants to see it so much, but she can’t go alone very well; and could
you—would you—be her escort? I’ve the tickets; and it will be so kind
of you.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said Ted, as she stopped for breath.
“I should never have forgiven you if you had not allowed me to share
in your first night’s triumph.”
“Oh, nonsense!” replied the girl, with a charming blush. “But I must
not, will not, fail with mother there. And I should like to please
you, too,” she added shyly.
[Illustration: Woman looking left]
So Ted put on his dress suit, spent the evening in an orchestra stall
at the Park, by the side of dear little old Mrs. Burnham, and was
as proud and happy as she at “her Eva’s” success, for although the
Princess Absurdaria is not the most attractive part in a “comic
opera” that has many superiors, still the newcomer in the cast was
so pretty and graceful and young that the crowded house noticed the
change at once, and manifested its approval many times. So great was
her success, indeed, that the mighty Poom condescended to crack a
joke about it, and the shapely star herself took a thorough mental
inventory of the new favorite.
When the performance was over Ted and Mrs. Burnham waited for Eva
at the stage door, and they all walked home together in the clear,
crisp November night. After his congratulations had been gracefully
tendered and prettily accepted, Ted was silent, trying a plan for
a little supper for his companions; but Mrs. Burnham relieved his
perplexity.
“You must stop in for a bit of lunch with us, Mr. Tracy,” said she.
“I’ve gotten up a little surprise for Eva, and we both want you to
share it, too.”
A dainty little supper it was, more cosy and homelike and wholesome
than anything Ted had experienced for years. Alone with these simple
friends, his foolish conceits melted away, and the good side of his
nature was revealed as it had never been before in Boston. They
were all very chatty and confidential. Ted told his troubles, and
was tenderly pitied by Eva and wisely advised by her mother. Then
the latter, in spite of her daughter’s remonstrances, told their
story—how her husband had died when she herself was ill three years
before, and how Eva, finding the burden upon her shoulders, had
pluckily taken it up and supported her mother in comfort by her wages
as a chorus girl.
“It’s been hard sometimes, dearie,” said Mrs. Burnham, as she stroked
her daughter’s wavy hair, “but the worst is over now; and, thank
God, you are as true and pure a girl as the first night you saw the
foot-lights.”
Ted went back to his little room with a lighter, braver heart than
he would have thought possible six hours before. The next day and
for many succeeding days he went at his work with a dash and vim that
could not help bringing success. And when, as often he was, tempted
to go back to his old ways, a pair of clear brown eyes seemed to
look out of a piquant, merry face straight into his, and to make him
refuse with almost rude abruptness.
In the spare moments, that before he would have more than wasted,
he wrote out with tender reverence the life-story Mrs. Burnham had
told him. His heart was in his work, and the result was a touching
and really well-written little tale. A great New York editor thought
it was so good, in fact, that he promptly mailed Ted a check for $25
and promised his effort immediate publication. When it did appear
the author read it to the principal characters, who listened with
tear-wet eyes, and immediately decided that Ted was without doubt the
American Dickens.
Its further effect was apparent a few days later, when a gruff but
kindly letter was received from Uncle John. One of its paragraphs was
as follows:
“I was much pleased with your story in the _Cosmopolitan_. The
heroine is, I suspect, a flesh and blood girl of your acquaintance.
If she will marry you, I will settle $2,000 a year on her and change
my will again.”
Ted repeated the words to Eva just as they reached her door, after
the walk home from the theatre one night.
“Can we live on $2,000 a year?” he asked with a smile, but gravely.
The girl grew pale and trembled; but when she looked up shyly and
sweetly into his ardent eyes there was no need for words. With a
happy sigh she threw her arms around his neck, and their lips met for
the first time.
[Illustration: Decoration]
No one was ever so near heaven before as the happy pair which New
Year’s found in dingy, stuffy old Suite Four.
OUR WINTER BIRDS.
OUR WINTER BIRDS.
ROBERT A. CAMPBELL.
[Illustrations by H. M. Chase and H. H. Gibson.]
“Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year.”
It is not remarkable that poets and bird-lovers consider the spring
of the year preëminently the season in which birds are to be studied
and admired. The change from the winter to the spring, from the
sombre to the variegated, the harmony that wakes the silent woods,
the dreamy south wind that mellows the air,—in truth, all life,
awakening, seems to be striving to render nature beautiful and
attractive. To say that spring-tide is not the best season of the
year for studying birds would be indicative of ignorance; but to
say that spring is the only season in which birds may be profitably
studied, would show an equal lack of knowledge.
[Illustration: Hanover sign]
When the leaves redden and fall, the birds that greeted us so
joyously six months before begin to disappear. Silently they depart,
dreading the rigor of the winter, seeking a warmer and a sunnier
clime. No longer is the dawn betokened by their chorus; yet we are
far from being entirely deserted, as there are over fifty species
that brave the cold weather with us. These winter birds are generally
from the north, spending their summers in Labrador or the Hudson Bay
region, and finding a warmer and more congenial resort in the pine
and hemlock vales of New England. On the other hand, there is a very
respectable minority who make this their permanent home. A sunny
day suffices to bring several kinds of them into the village, and
then only are they observed by the multitude, though a few, more
interested and zealous, know where to find them at other times.
[Illustration: Bird in tree]
Between January and March I am never unable to find flocks of the
pine grosbeak; they are generally found in the college park, but if
not there, they will be in Webster glen, or surely on Balch hill.
None of the birds that spend the winter with us receive so much
notice as these, on account of the frequency with which they visit
the village in search of the seeds of frozen fruit, or the buds on
evergreen trees. A low mellow whistle apprises the pedestrian of
the proximity of the grosbeak, and the bird is quickly discovered,
probably with from six or eight to thirty companions, that gradually
show themselves to the admiring observer. About the size of a robin,
the females are distinguished by a soft yellow coloring, which
becomes a brilliant scarlet in the male. It is at once noticed that
there are about five females to one male, which is natural, when we
consider that the male is the hardier bird, and for that reason often
remains behind in the northland. It is sometimes called the “Canadian
robin” about here. I did not appreciate the fitness of the name
until last February, when I found a half dozen of them apparently
leading three half-frozen and half-starved robins to a place where
they might find food. They are of about the same size, and fly in a
manner very like the robin, so that a careless observer might very
naturally consider them a kind of robin. Last winter they arrived
on the 14th of November, and stayed until the 21st of March. It was
perhaps a trifle strange, that on the 22d of March, the very day
after the last grosbeak was seen, the spring migration began with the
arrival of robins and bluebirds.
Though I have never heard the grosbeak sing, yet, at the setting of
the sun on some of the warmer March days, I have listened to some
of their low, liquid warblings that were marvels of sweetness, and
proved to my mind their right to be considered among the finest of
our singing birds.
[Illustration: Birdhouse]
The grosbeak has a cousin smaller than himself and rarer, that is
equally interesting, the American red crossbill. During the past two
years a large number of these birds have spent the months of January
and February in the park, and on account of their accessibility
have furnished me many interesting notes. In general coloring they
closely resemble the grosbeak, but they are scarcely two thirds its
size. Their crossed bills, which furnish them their common name,
are their most noticeable and interesting characteristic. It is a
spectacle as pretty as it is curious to see one take the seeds from
the cone of a fir tree. The hooked upper mandible serves to catch
hold of and tear out the seed, while the lower one is a receptacle
for it. With the red crossbill is sometimes seen the white species,
which is much the rarer visitant of the two.
But if mention is to be made of any representative winter birds, we
must notice the chickadee. A rugged little fellow, undaunted, though
the weather be ever so cold, he salutes us almost everywhere, and as
he passes busily from tree to tree, seeking his sustenance, he makes
his little remarks in a business-like way, occasionally approaching
his admirer with a confidential message, which he rattles off and
then flits away to join some _bon camarade_. The chickadees, on
account of their excellent temper and character, make many friends,
and we frequently find nuthatchers, kinglets, sparrows, and other
small birds about with them.
[Illustration: Bird nest]
That these birds are forced to be gregarious, in order to protect
themselves from hunger and cold, is well illustrated by the fact
that the snowbirds and pine linnets occasionally swoop down upon us
in flocks of two to three hundred. If one searches the wooded hills
at some distance from the town, rarer species of owls and the like
may be found with partridges, occasionally Canada jays, and during
especially severe winters straggling Arctic birds. Indeed, one can
hardly walk abroad without having his interest well repaid, and rare
finds and new discoveries are of sufficient frequency to keep the
observer enthusiastic. I think I was first attracted to these cold
weather observations from selfish motives, for there was a great
charm to me in walking through pathless fields of snow, and feeling,
from the absence of human footprints, that no one else was seeing
what I saw and enjoying what I enjoyed; and if a few days later
I went over the same ground and found no tracks but my own, this
pleasure was increased. There is something peculiarly fascinating in
an interesting solitude.
[Illustration: Decoration]
A NEW YEAR’S LEGACY.
A NEW YEAR’S LEGACY.
JOHN H. BARTLETT.
[Illustrations by F. H. Trow.]
“Now, Dan, you must try to do your best to-night. There will be
heaps o’ people at that speaking, and Squire Barnard’s hall will be
full, and I fear how you might be kind o’ shakey when you see ’em
all looking at yer, boy. But be brave and powerful smart to-night,
Dan, and maybe, some day, somebody’ll do ye a good turn, and ye might
get a bit more learning.” These were the words that broke the deep
quietness of a strangely impressive hour in a home freighted with
ill fortune and cursed by nearly every event. It was in the days of
early American life when Puritan simplicity and colonial customs held
society in a more natural state, and allowed the highest and lowest
a more ready approach. But the home of Dan Kenashton, though decent,
was the simplest of the simple, and the most unpretentious of the
unpretending. And on that November evening long ago, when, in other
home-circles the “husking bee,” the evening kitchen party, and other
ancestral pastimes told of pleasantly passing days, in this there
lurked a legend of something wrong. The roughly hewn timbers which
presented their ugly faces to the two inmates, in the two solitary
rooms of this weird old cot seemed to speak curses on whomsoever was
within. Even the dusty old motto, “God Bless Our Home,” which hung
over the crude board shelf, seemed to bear an ill-omened import.
Beside it was a well kept picture, a battle scene. Brave men were
defending a fortification, amid snow and sleet and fire and lead,
against an insidious attack by the Muskigo tribe on New Year’s eve.
’Neath the feet of those still contending lay the bleeding bodies of
those who had fought their last. Did this have any special meaning
in that home? If so, surely war is honorable, and to die in loyal
defence leaves not a stigma upon one’s posterity. An old flintlock
musket stood in the corner. It had not the appearance of recent
use; the hammer was rusty and flintless; the bayonet was blunt and
rusty, too;—but there it stood as it had stood for years, becoming
such a part of the house that Dan never wondered at its use nor
questioned its origin. Hanging to it was an old canteen. They were
certainly relics of war, but war was common in those days, and the
sight of arms familiar. A few antique pieces of furniture and the old
spinning-wheel completed the scene in this strange, scanty home.
[Illustration: Rifle]
Dan, in his honest, quiet way, replied to the simple, yet feeling,
words of his mother, “Indeed I’ll do all I can to win the prize, but
it’s little use, you know I hav’n’t very good clothes to wear, and it
’pears to me that Deacon Ackley and Squire Barnard himself, and the
other judges, don’t like me very well, and besides, I haven’t had any
help until I spoke the piece to General Brockaway to-day.”
“What, how did that happen, Dan?” asked the mother, startled with a
sudden impulse of rage at the mention of that name.
“Well, I couldn’t say how it was, exactly. He happened to hear that
I was going to speak a war piece, and so he wanted to hear it. I
thought it would be all right to recite it to him, and I did. He is
writing a book on the old Indian wars. He said Mr. Kenashton, my
father, was once a good soldier and fought under him at the battle of
the Creek, that he remembered his face distinctly, and thought I had
some of his marks.”
“I warn you, my boy, to keep away from that old man. He’s no friend
of ours, Dan, nor was he a friend to your father. Friend! Oh, my God!
were he not an enemy, less bitter would be my cup. But it’s well you
know not all, my boy.”
“I don’t exactly understand,” replied Dan, “but I’ve wondered why we
are not like other people, and why nobody cares to know us, but the
old General wants to see that flint-lock and canteen, and says he
intends to say something about them in his book, and so I told him
I’d take them down to him to-morrow.”
“Curse the old general and his book,” said the mother, thinking she
had detected him in some new plot, and becoming almost mad with
rage, “take them to him and bid him keep them; they are not my——ah!
but it’s well you know not all, Dan; yes, well, indeed.”
Like a lightning flash the whole past was mirrored in her mind. She
never would believe him a traitor. Not for one moment. Fort Shelby
may have been betrayed and the betrayer shot by his comrade captors,
but he was not John Kenashton, nor is that his musket and canteen.
They are the only signs of his guilt, and God knows they are not his.
His name may have been on that canteen, but it was not his writing,
not as I saw him write it. If General Brockaway had been a braver man
himself, things would appear different. But of one thing I am sure,
John Kenashton fell fighting bravely for what to him was most dear.
Thus meditating to herself she passed the evening.
[Illustration: Man standing with hand out]
Dan had gone to the speaking. It was one of those old-time lyceum
contests. The would-be literateurs of the vicinity had their
organization, and on every Thursday evening during the colder
months assembled to carry out programmes of a grave and stately
nature, mostly on literary, political, and agricultural topics.
The occasion on this November eve was the annual prize contest,
open to all competitors, when the little surplus in the treasury,
weekly reimbursed by a small collection to defray “incidental and
other expenses,” was devoted to prizes which were awarded at the
grand declamatory competition. It was the great event of the year.
Dan had competed time and time again since his small boyhood, and
always without any recognition, although, did people dare to utter
their own thoughts, they would call him the best speaker. He had
the strong, clear articulation of an orator—calm, composed, yet
forcible in utterance. The flash of his keen, black eye would have
held any audience spell-bound, could it once forget the betrayer of
Fort Shelby. Although he spoke better this time than ever before,
and his preëminence was more pronounced, his name was not read on
the prize list. The reason was apparent. A few justice-loving people
shrugged their shoulders, looked disapproval and cast sympathizing,
if not almost admiring, glances at his strong, honest face. General
Brockaway, proud of the results of his instruction, half wanted Dan
to win, and even started to rise in his seat to interpose objections
to the decisions rendered, but as quickly as cloud follows sunshine,
evil impulse follows good, one thought another, he realized the risk
of his prestige and settled back in his seat. The weekly lyceum was
continued for years thereafter, but the last prize contest in Shelby
town was over.
II.
Two years had passed and all the citizens of Shale Valley were
preparing to celebrate in a grand mass assembly on New Year’s eve the
twenty-fifth anniversary of the repulse of the Muskigos. This victory
of the settlers, following closely upon the disastrous affair of Fort
Shelby, practically prevented the complete annihilation of these
settlements, and on this account New Year’s had since been held as
a kind of holy day in all Shale Valley. General Brockaway, the hero
of many conflicts and the chief functionary of the vicinity, had been
selected to deliver the oration on this great occasion.
[Illustration: Fireplace]
For years he had been engaged, as his leisure hours would permit, in
historical investigations, with special reference to the conflicts
which were related to this anniversary; and his eloquent words, fired
with the zest of experience in the events concerned, were freighted
with new and startling facts. One paragraph of that memorable oration
struck deep in every heart, and its verification revolutionized the
sentiment of the whole region in one particular at least. It was
this:—“I have a grave correction to make, a long continued injury
to set right. John Kenashton, who fought by my side with dying
heroism at the Creek battle, is not, as was supposed, the betrayer
of Shelby Fort. He fell, fighting as he always fought, bravely and
loyally, of which fact I have living and indisputable evidence.” At
this statement all were amazed. Old men shook their heads, the women
looked volumes of doubt, and the young keenly bent their attention.
A revelation, mingled with surprise, sadness, and joy, manifested
itself in the countenance of the injured son, toward whom all
eyes were turned instantly. The general’s words were accepted as
true, and the moral, Puritan sense of that people, realizing their
long-continued injustice, was quick in making all possible reparation
to the widow and son of the loyal soldier who, for a quarter century,
had been branded as a traitor. The revulsion of feeling was so great
that Dan soon became the most popular fellow in the Valley, and all
were glad to congratulate him three years afterward, when, on New
Year’s eve, he had won the most charming belle in Shale Valley, and
become the only heir to General Brockaway’s large estate.
[Illustration: Decoration]
BY PROXY.
BY PROXY.
B. C. TAYLOR.
[Illustrations by M. S. Sherman.]
Harry St. Albans was good looking, that was conceded by all. His
father was wealthy, and Harry was the especial admiration of all the
young ladies. Whether from his ability to entertain, his good looks,
or his father’s wealth, no party or private theatrical of any account
was a success without him as principal actor. At college he had been
a member of the dramatic club, and taken one of the leading parts in
“The Rivals.”
The wonder of every one was, that Harry did not get married. There
surely were several young ladies whom one in his circumstances
might be proud of taking for a wife, but he stubbornly adhered to
bachelorhood, and prospective mothers-in-law became more abashed as
he obstinately resisted the charms of all the young ladies.
[Illustration: Woman looking right]
It was on the evening of the 30th day of December that Harry was at
a party given in honor of Mrs. Slocum’s friend. At first sight of
her he was captivated; she was the belle of the season, they told
him, and he did not doubt it. In every movement there was a charming
grace, and the mellowest pair of blue eyes seemed to laugh at him
all the time. Her words seemed like music to Harry’s ears, with that
rich, Italian accent which only a woman of great accomplishments
possesses.
When he departed that evening, it was with the greatest reluctance
that he left her side. And as he put on his coat and went out into
the cold night, his mind still wandered back to a pair of blue eyes.
In every window he seemed to see that pair of blue eyes watching
him. What was the trouble? He, a confirmed bachelor, being so
agitated by a pretty face and a pair of blue eyes.
Finally he reached his home, and now he was trying to forget the
happenings of the evening. But those eyes still pursued him in his
sleep. Upon awakening, he knew that it was all a dream; yet not all,
for those eyes were a reality.
“Harry,” said his father, “when you are in the city to-day I wish you
would call on my old friend, Tom Harris, and give him my best wishes
for his success. To-night is New Year’s eve, and he is to open his
new theatre, ‘The Grand Royal,’ and his daughter, who has lately
returned from abroad, is to be the leading actress.” Of course Harry
would be only too glad to call on his father’s old friend; and the
first place he went, on his arrival in the city, was to the private
office of “The Grand Royal.”
“Henry St. Albans’ son? Oh! yes, but you will excuse me for a moment.
I have some urgent business with my leading actor. Please step
into the office for a moment,” replied Manager Harris, when Harry
introduced himself.
[Illustration: Man leaning on arm]
The door was left ajar, and he could not very well help hearing the
conversation. It seems that Oscar Redmond, who was one of the most
promising actors of the day, had the failing of a great many actors,
and would drink occasionally, yet seldom get intoxicated. That
morning, however, he had been out with some of the boys, and as all
wished to drink to his success, he had indulged rather too freely,
and in such a condition he had come to the manager of “The Grand
Royal” and demanded an exorbitant salary, above the amount specified
in the contract. Mr. Harris refused, saying that he would rather
close his theatre than submit to such an outrage, and Redmond left,
declaring that he would not appear that night.
“Harry,” began the manager as he returned, “did you”—“Yes, I heard
every word, Mr. Harris; but perhaps I can aid you in some way.”
“You?” “Yes, years ago when I was at college I was considered a good
impersonator and quick to learn my part,” said Harry, “and if you
have no objection I will learn the lines this morning and rehearse
with the company in the afternoon.”
“But can you take this part?” said Mr. Harris, with a peculiar accent
on the you. “I don’t want to have a bad performance on the opening
night, it will almost ruin my reputation.”
“You can rely on me,” said Harry, “I played just such a part in
‘The Rivals’ when at college, and my friends told me I would miss my
calling unless I took the stage for my profession?”
“Harry, you’re a brick!” said the manager, slapping him on the
shoulder, “and if you succeed, I’ll do anything in my power for you.”
The rehearsal was gone through with successfully, all being present
except the leading lady, who wished to save her strength for the
evening performance.
The theatre was crowded, for Oscar Redmond was an excellent actor
and a great favorite. Just before going on the stage, Harry was
introduced to the leading actress. He was thunderstruck; it was the
lady with the blue eyes.
Never did actor play with more enthusiasm and fervor, never was a
love scene more realistic; for the time being Harry forgot he was
reciting so many words, but he was pleading his own cause with a love
that knew no bounds. If one had been watching Harry with an opera
glass, as he knelt at the feet of the heroine, he could have seen him
raise a dainty hand to his lips and kiss it. It was all that Harry
wanted; for to him it meant that he had been accepted—not by the lady
in the play, but by the girl whose blue eyes had won him the night
before.
The audience was thunderous in its applause, and curtain calls
were numerous. The next day Oscar Redmond, shamefaced yet curious,
appeared at Mr. Harris’s private office. The morning papers were
lavish in their praise of the young actor, and he was anxious
to learn the meaning of it. When he was told that his part had
been taken so admirably by another, he made his first New Year’s
resolution, which he has never broken.
“And now, Mr. Harris,” said Harry, “I ask, as the fulfilment of your
promise of yesterday, the hand of the sweetest and best girl that
ever lived, that of your daughter.”
“But what of the young lady, Harry? Surely, she ought to be
consulted first.” “She has already accepted me,” replied Harry, “it
now remains with you.”
“I am only too glad to give my consent,” said Mr. Harris, and a
moment later Harry was receiving congratulations from Oscar Redmond
and a score of new made friends.
[Illustration: Decoration]
IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN.
IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN.
EDWIN O. GROVER.
[Illustrations by W. B. Plummer.]
The narrow valley which nestled in the lap of the Ossipee and Sheep
mountains had already begun to awaken from its summer reverie.
The early September days had touched it with their first faint
suggestiveness of autumn glories, and the second growth maples in the
lowlands had answered with a few crimson leaves and golden boughs.
The little Bear Camp brook, which had hardly moistened the sands of
its sinuous banks during the long, dry summer, had begun to flow
again. Farther up the valley the saw-mills of Forest City could be
heard, starting up after their summer’s idleness.
It were strange if the two shanties, which adorned in their ugliness
the western side of Sheep mountain, had not participated in the
new life of the little valley. To the passerby they were the same
patched and dilapidated huts which they were the day Pete Larkim and
Lize Simonds had made that memorable “weddin’ tower” to Bear Camp
a couple of months ago. Pete’s “ole man” and “Ria” had flattered
themselves that their bit of diplomacy, which had prearranged and
carried out Pete’s marriage to Lize, would bring them a happy old age
of ease and indolence.
To Pete and Lize, however, their “gittin’ merred” was but a part of
their day’s outing at Bear Camp and the Bluff. It meant nothing more
than the enjoyment of the peanuts together and the satisfying of
their parents’ wishes. Pete still lived with his “paw” and “maw,” and
spent his days in hunting, while Lize remained in the Simonds shanty
and scolded the half dozen younger children as they quarrelled over
hoecake and hominy. Pete’s “ole man” objected to his spending his
whole time in hunting, and Pete had taken to crawling quietly from
his bed of straw in the loft long before Bill Larkim was up, and
starting on his day’s tramp over the steep sides of Black Snout or
Sheep mountain.
[Illustration: Two men talking]
This morning, however, Pete had overslept, and as he took down his
gun, Bill Larkim rose from the low bench by the door, where he had
taken his accustomed seat to watch for driftwood.
“Naow look er hyar, Pete,” he said; “there hain’t no call fer yo’ ter
go a huntin’ ev’ry day an’ leave me ter do the hull o’ the work. Yo’
got ’nough plovers yisterday ter las’ a week.”
“Naw thar wa’n’t nuther,” said Pete, with a grin. “They’re all gone
a’ready.”
Bill looked up angrily, and blew a cloud of smoke from between his
clenched teeth.
“Yo’ can’t fool yer old paw,” he said, with an emphatic gesture
toward the Simonds shanty. “I ’low I know who et them plovers
yisterday. Jack Simonds got ter feed hisself er starve!” and Bill
shook his bushy head of hair and his massive fist toward the
dilapidated shanty, which seemed to tremble in very fear.
Pete, who had been leaning on his gun, tightened his belt as he
muttered, “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve ef Jack Simonds does.”
“Ef Lize hed ruther starve than come ter live with us, as she’d
orter, I ’low we can stan’ it,” continued Bill, without noticing the
interruption. “What ’d yo’ git merred fur, ef Lize hain’t goin’ ter
help me’n yer maw, naow we’re gittin’ old an’ rickety? D’ yo’ hyar,
Pete Larkim?” he almost yelled, in his anger. “Thar hain’t one o’
that Simonds gang ez gits another drap from me. Ef yo’ ’re goin’
huntin, yo’ can go; but ef yo’ ’re to feed that cuss of a Jack
Simonds, don’t yo’ never let me ketch yo’ round hyar agin. Yo’ kin
take yo’r chice ter s’port yo’r paw an’ maw, ez yo’ orter, or them
shiftless Simonds.’”
Pete had stood leaning on his gun, and digging with the toe of his
cowhide boot a miniature crater in the soft earth. As his “ole man”
sat down sullenly on his bench, Pete buttoned up his leather jacket,
and, his gun on his shoulder, shambled down across the brook and out
into the clearing beyond.
“Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve,” he kept saying to himself all day,
as he tramped through the rocky woods of Sheep mountain in search of
game.
It was early evening when Pete came down with his brace of plover
from the open summit of the mountain into the shadows which had
settled on the narrow valley.
[Illustration: Music symbols]
Just where he was going he did not know; but whenever he thought of
returning to his old home, he would seem to hear some one say, “Lize
hain’t goin’ ter starve,” and he would stop, as if to listen. He was
nearer the shanties than he thought, for once as he paused he heard
the voice of some one singing down the mountain path. A moment later
Lize appeared, and Pete greeted her with, “Hello, Lize; I’m moughty
glad ter see yo’. It’s been kinder lonesome on the mounting ter day.”
[Illustration: Woman standing]
To most, Lize would not have been good looking, but Pete thought he
had never seen so beautiful a picture as that of Lize standing in the
rocky pathway in her soiled and ragged gown of calico. The leafless
twigs of the pathside had caught her hair, and tangled it till it
floated bewilderingly about her freckled face. A moment before, Pete
was thinking of going home; but now, when Lize questioned him, he
answered quickly, “Goin’ up to Forrest City. Paw ’lows I can’t go
home no more ’thout I quit givin’ yo’ game, Lize. An’ yo’ hain’t
goin’ to starve, not ef Pete Larkim knows it. Hyar, Lize, take these
plovers; they’ll feed yo’ for a day or two. Game’s moughty scarce on
the mounting, but I’ll git yo’ suthin, Lize.”
As they walked down the path together, Pete could not help wondering
what made him feel so tenderly for Lize. Ever since he could
remember, they had made mud pies together, and quarrelled over
their dams of dirt and rocks which they had built across the little
stream. In fact, their life acquaintance had not been a particularly
pleasant one. But since his father’s interference, Pete had
discovered an attraction in Lize as simple, yet as strong, as love
can create.
Pete had no difficulty in finding a home among the shanties of the
mountain “city.” Day after day he would go after game for Lize, and
every evening she would meet him, and they would walk together to the
turn of the road, in the cold November twilight. These walks made
Pete very happy, for he had never before experienced the joy of doing
a kind deed, and Lize was very thankful in her simple way.
The December days had brought the first scuds of snow down the
little valley from the already whitened summits of Ossipee mountains.
The walks with Lize became less and less frequent as the snow became
deeper, but she never failed to meet Pete at the turn of the mountain
road, to receive his gift of game.
[Illustration: Decoration]
As they met one evening in late December, Pete hung his head in
shame. His hands were empty.
“’T ain’t my fault, Lize,” he said, hardly daring to look up. “I hed
moughty fine luck up ther mounting ter-day, an’ war goin’ ter give
yo’ a real surprise, fur tomorrer’s Christmas, yo’ know. But paw jest
laid fur me up hyar in the brush, and stole ever plover I hed. I’m
moughty sorry, Lize, but p’raps”——
“’Tain’t no matter, Pete,” interrupted Lize. “Maw can make a hoe-cake
fur Christmas. You’ve ben moughty good ter me, Pete, an’ some day
mebbe I can do sumthin’ fer yo’,” and Lize looked at him in simple
thankfulness.
“I’m moughty sorry, Lize,” repeated Pete. “But bein’ yo’ hain’t got
nothin’ ter eat, can’t yo’ come up ter the celebrashun ter-night?
They’re goin’ ter hev a real Christmas tree at the school-house, an’
the parson’s comin’ up from Bar Camp an’ bring er lot o’ presents
with him. Mebbe we’ll get one, Lize.”
The deep-set black eyes of Lize lighted up with evident pleasure at
the thought.
“Mebbe we will,” she answered. “At enny rate, Pete, I’ll come,
shore,” she called after him, as he started towards his “city” home.
It was a great event in the history of the little mountain hamlet,
for it was the first time that Christmas had ever condescended to
visit the cluster of half a dozen shanties. The lights were all
extinguished, save in the ten by twenty school-house where the
celebration was being held.
[Illustration: Decoration]
As Pete and Lize came in from the cold night air to the warmth and
glow of Christmas which filled the stuffy little school-house, they
were silent in surprise. It was something unheard of, this giving of
presents to friends, much less to strangers; but as they heard the
story of the first Christmas, and the message it brought, they began
to realize the true meaning of _Love_. As if it were contagious,
it dawned upon Pete for the first time, that his affection and
regard for Lize was nothing less than _love_. He felt as if with the
distribution of the presents and the strings of popcorn something
new and strange had come into his rough life.
“I ’low we must er got it, Lize,” said Pete, as together they ate
their string of corn. “Maw ’lowed I hed the measles, but she never
said nothin’ ’bout my gettin’ in love.”
“’Tain’t no disease, Pete,” said Lize, who had a woman’s intuition
and tenderness in her childish heart. “Lovin’ hain’t catchin’ no
more’n nothin’. It’s jest er hevin’ er big heart an’ lettin’ er
loose, thet’s all.” And Lize flushed a little at her evident display
of knowledge. “The parson ’lowed ez how nobody who wa’n’t in love
orter git merred,” Lize continued. “’Tain’t that way hyar; leastwise,
I hain’t never heard er nobody bein’ in love up hyar on the
mounting.”
Pete was very quiet now. His hat was drawn over his deep-set eyes,
and he was playing nervously with the folds in Lize’s calico gown. He
was evidently thinking. “Lize,” he said, at length, “I ’low ez we’ve
got it, sartin; an’ we’re gittin’ ole, too. I’ve known yo’ fur a long
spell, Lize. It’s nigh sixteen year, hain’t it?”
Lize, who could hardly tell her own age, ’lowed it war a moughty long
time.
“Wa-al,” said Pete, hesitatingly, “bein’ ez how we’re in love, Lize,
let’s git merred fur keeps. Thet wa’n’t no weddin’ last summer, when
paw and maw sent us daown ter Bar Camp, was it, Lize?”
“A weddin’?” asked Lize, “naw; we jest got merred. Thar hain’t no
weddin’ ’thout yo’’re in love; an’ we’ve got it naow, Pete, sartin;”
and Lize looked surprised at the new thought.
Pete needed no more encouragement, but taking his slouch hat in hand
he walked nervously to where the parson was distributing the last of
the Christmas presents.
“Me’n Lize ’low ez we hain’t got no call ter bother yo’, parson,” he
said, as he looked attentively at a hole in his old hat. “But me’n
Lize wan’ ter git merred fur keeps, an’ we ’lowed ez mebbe you’d do
it fur nothin’, ez we hain’t got no present ter-night. It only costs
half er dollar,” Pete suggested, as the surprised parson seemed to
hesitate.
[Illustration: U.S. half dollar coin]
The mention of the fact that it only cost half a dollar seemed to
recall something to the good parson. Before he could answer, however,
Pete continued:
“Thet wa’n’t no weddin las’ summer, daown ter Bar Camp, ’cause we
wa’n’t in love. But we’ve got it naow, sartin; an’ we wan’ ter git
merred fur keeps.” Pete looked up pleadingly.
A moment later, Pete and Lize stood blushingly, hand in hand, before
the group of rough mountaineers. As the parson put this question to
Pete, “Do you take this girl for your Christmas present for keeps?”
his dark eyes lighted up with a new happiness, and he answered
quickly, “I ’low I does, fur keeps.”
There was a movement of surprise in the audience as Pete and
Lize went down the narrow aisle, and one or two of the uncouth
mountaineers instinctively drew their slouch hats from their heads.
“Whar yo’ goin’, Pete?” inquired Lize, timidly, as they went out of
the school-house into the Christmas night.
“Goin’ home, uv co’rse,” he said. “Paw’ll be moughty pleased, fur
I ’low ez he hain’t hed nothin’ ter eat fur mor’’n a month. I tell
yo’ what, Lize, I’ll su’prise him with er Christmas present. ’Tain’t
allus ez paw gits er Christmas present.”
As Pete and Lize plodded down the valley road, they were very happy
in their plans for the future. The dilapidated Larkim shanty seemed a
mansion in their unrestrained happiness.
It was nearly midnight when Pete and Lize reached the two shanties
which for sixteen years had been all that “home” meant to them. Pete
pounded loudly on the rough door of the Larkim shanty, eager to
present his angry “ole man” his Christmas present, which had brought
so much happiness to him. In a moment there was a big bushy head
thrust out the little square window at the side, and Pete called,—
“Haow are yo’, paw? I’s got a Christmas present fur yo’.”
“Naw yo’ hain’t, nuther,” broke in Bill. “What yo’ doin’ ’round hyar
ennyways, yo’ young rascal, yo’? Be that Lize?” he yelled, as he
recognized the shivering form at Pete’s side.
“Uv co’rse,” replied Pete. “We’ve got merred for keeps, an’”——
“Merred!” exclaimed Bill, from his window. “Hain’t yo’ been merred
all summer, an’ then yo’ lighted out and left yo’ paw and maw ter
starve. Yo’ don’t wan’ ter come sneakin’ ’round hyar, Pete Larkim; if
yo’ do, I’ll shoot yo’. I don’t want none o’ yo’ Christmas present.”
And the window dropped with a crash.
For a moment Pete was silent with astonishment, till Lize, taking him
by the hand, said,—
“Don’t yo’ keer, Pete. It’s moughty hard luck. But I ’low ez haow
Bill Simonds hain’t fergot. Yo’ come er long with me, Pete;” and
together they sought refuge under the roof of the Simonds shanty.
“Paw hain’t no call ter kick us out,” said Pete, at length. “But I’m
moughty glad we went ter the celebrashun, hain’t yo’, Lize?”
CHRISTMAS EVE, A FANTASY.
[Illustration: Christmas Eve]
A FANTASY.
R. H. FLETCHER.
[Illustrations by M. S. Sherman.]
It had been for me a day of toil and weariness and grief. Sick in
body and heart, I returned home late at night and threw myself just
as I was upon a couch. In an instant slumber came, but not relief.
I seemed again to tread the weary streets, crowded with the
ever-surging throngs. On the icy-mirror pavements, in the
blazing windows of the stores, on the faces of the joyous
purchasers,—everywhere was the Christmas glow; and once more in
bitterness of spirit I cried out against the hollow mockery and sham.
There was a change. All had vanished save the lights. Nor were they
frigid, blinding, cruel, as before; a rosy glow, warm, soft, and
kind, filled all the room. Before me stood an angel form, whence
streamed the radiance. Beautiful was her flowing robe; beautiful must
once have been her face, but now the deep lines about the large,
appealing eyes, the quavering of the patient lips, and the pallor of
the sunken cheeks had marred its symmetry and grace.
“Come,” said the figure in a voice plaintive, yet sweet.
Unhesitatingly I grasped her hand, and straightway we were flying
through the air. The night was inky and awful. The wind moaned
dismally as it hurled upon us the huge masses of clouds, threatening
and demon-like, and naught but implicit confidence in my conductor
preserved me from a sense of loneliness and of desolation, from an
utter horror like to that of death.
Long thus we flew, outstripping the swift pursuing blasts, until day
bloomed like a rank marsh flower. A gloomy, dismal day.
Beyond the vision on either side, a mighty pile stretched; above,
it was lost in the low-lying clouds, reaching, perhaps, to the very
skies I thought.
Grand the design appeared, yet grand rather in what it should have
been than in what it was; for here the walls stood all in moss-grown
ruins, as though shaken by some overwhelming earthquake shock, here
still unfinished. Everywhere, besides, had been inwrought marble
blocks and shattered columns from the ruins that strewed the plain
for leagues around. All about were men engaged upon the palace; but
though some were earnestly endeavoring to prop the leaning walls, or
to set the great stones firm and true, some, I thought, strove only
to cover the gapping seams with useless tinsel, while some were even
battering with rams whatever places were the weakest.
Stumbling beneath an arch whose very keystone threatened to drop
upon us as we went, and then through dark and ruinous passages, we
entered. We emerged into a great hall, whose gaudy, gilded splendor
could not long blind the eyes to the bare foundations protruding
all about and crumbling in decay. Here a preacher was describing
the true Christmas, yet, though his words rang with wondrously
fervid eloquence, they met but little response in the faces of his
congregation. Unconsciously my guide approached the speaker, while
her splendor became even more intense, until it shone almost like the
sun, and yet it might be gazed upon, so soft and friendly was it. But
even as it blazed most gloriously it faded, and with a halfstifled
sob the angel turned away. To my questioning glance she made reply,
“I am Love, and as I come where love is my effulgence grows more
bright.”
Through ruined chambers and dark corridors, around black, yawning
chasms, up and down great tottering stairways, now we passed, while
I held in terror to the hand of my unmoved conductor. At length we
stood in a city street. Remember, all was vague and indefinite to
me, for it was but a vision or a dream. In the great surging mass of
humanity I noted but two beings, a ragged woman and a little sleeping
child which she was bearing in her arms. Plainly she was wandering
in search of work. Behind her stood a black, misshapen something,
gaunt and grisly, wearing a faint resemblance to the human form,
and upon his gloomy forehead I thought I read the impress of this
word, “Hunger.” In his hand he held a lash, and with it he even beat
the shoulders of the woman, compelling her to quicken her weary
steps; of escape she had no hope. Once she would have sank upon the
pavement; the demon strode before with a starved and frightful laugh,
and struck the child, which wakened with a moan. As if in answer
to its call Love drew near, shining with a subdued but cheerful
light. The tense lines upon the woman’s face relaxed; she arose and
struggled on, but for a moment only. As the demon Hunger turned
and beheld Love standing there he rushed upon her with a fearful
cry, then turned and fled. Not an instant was the monster’s place
unfilled. Another of his kind, with a still more awful countenance,
upon which was written “Despair,” appeared and struck the woman
to the ground; nor did he cease to rain upon her frightful blows,
while she glared at him in fierce defiance. I hid my eyes, and when
I looked again woman and child had vanished and in their places were
two clods of earth.