INTRODUCTION TO COLORED INKS
My room in the Sherman House, then, as now, one of the most
conveniently located hotels in the business district of Chicago, was
the scene of Eugene Field's first introduction to the use of colored
inks. His exquisitely neat, small, and beautifully legible handwriting
has always been the subject of wondering comment and admiration. He
adopted and perfected that style of chirography deliberately to reduce
the labor of writing to a minimum. And he succeeded, for few pen-men
could exceed him in the rapidity with which he produced "copy" for the
printer and none excelled him in sending that copy to the compositor in
a form so free from error as to leave no question where blame for
typographical blunders lay. In over twenty years' experience in
handling copy I have only known one regular writer for the press who
wrote as many words to a sheet as Field. That was David H. Mason, the
tariff expert, whose handwriting was habitually so infinitesimal that
he put more than a column of brevier type matter on a single page,
note-paper size.
Strange to say, the compositors did not complain of this eye-straining
copy, which attracted them by its compactness and stretched out to
nearly half a column in the "strings" by which their pay was measured.
From this it may be inferred that there was never any complaint of
Field's manuscript from the most exacting and captious of all newspaper
departments--the composing room.
However, I set out to relate the genesis of Field's use of the colored
inks, with which he not only embellished his correspondence and
presentation copies of his verse, but with which he was wont to
illuminate his copy for the printer. It came about in this way:
In the winter of 1885 Walter Cranston Larned, author of the "Churches
and Castles of Mediæval France," then the art critic for the News,
contributed to it a series of papers on the Walters gallery in
Baltimore. These attracted no small attention at the time, and were the
subject of animated discussion in art circles in Chicago. They were
twelve in number, and ran along on the editorial page of the News from
February 23d till March 10th. At first we of the editorial staff took
only a passing interest in Mr. Larned's contributions. But one day
Field, Ballantyne, and I, from a discussion of the general value of art
criticism in a daily newspaper, were led to question whether it
conveyed an intelligible impression of the subject, and more
particularly of the paintings commented on, to the ordinary reader. The
point was raised as to the practicability of artists themselves
reproducing any recognizable approach to the original paintings by
following Mr. Larned's verbal descriptions. Thereupon we deliberately
set about, in a spirit of frolic to be sure, to attempt what we each
and all considered a highly improbable feat.
Armed with the best water colors we could find in Abbott's art store,
we converted my bachelor quarters in the Sherman House into an amateur
studio, where we daily labored for an hour or so in producing most
remarkable counterfeits of the masterpieces in Mr. Walters's gallery
as seen through Mr. Larned's text. We were innocent of the first
principles of drawing and knew absolutely nothing about the most
rudimentary use of water colors. Somehow, Field made a worse botch in
mixing and applying the colors than did either Ballantyne or I. They
would never produce the effects intended. He made the most whimsical
drawings, only to obliterate every semblance to his original conception
in the coloring. To prevent his going on a strike, I ransacked Chicago
for colored inks to match those required in the pictures that had been
assigned to him. This inspired him with renewed enthusiasm, and he
devoted himself to the task of realizing Mr. Larned's descriptions in
colored inks with the zest that produces the masterpieces over which
artists and critics rave.
His first work in this line was a reproduction--or shall I call it a
restoration--of Corot's "St. Sebastian." In speaking of this as one of
the noteworthy paintings in the Walters gallery, Mr. Larned had said
that it was a landscape in which the figures were quite subordinate and
seemed merely intended to illustrate the deeper meaning of the painter
in his rendition of nature. According to the critic's detailed
description, it was a forest scene. "Great trees rise on the right to
the top of the canvas. On the left are also some smaller trees, whose
upper branches reach across and make, with the trees on the right, a
sort of arch through which is seen a wonderful stretch of sky. A rocky
path leads away from the foreground beneath the overhanging trees,
sloping upward until it reaches the crest of a hill beneath the sky.
Just at this point the figures of two retreating horsemen are seen.
These are the men who have been trying to kill St. Sebastian, and have
left him, as they thought, dead in the depth of the forest. In the
immediate foreground lies the figure of the half dead saint, whose
wounds are being dressed by two women. Hovering immediately above this
group, far up among the tree branches, two lovely little angels are
seen holding the palm and crown of the martyr. All the figures are
better painted than is usual with Corot, and the angels are very light
and delicate, both in color and form." Mr. Earned quoted from a
celebrated French authority that this was "the most sincerely religious
picture of the nineteenth century." I leave it to the reader if Mr.
Larned's description conveys any such impression. To Field's mind, it
only suggested the grotesque, and his reproduction was a _chef
d'oeuvre_, as he was wont to say. He followed the general outline of
the scene as described above, but made the landscape subordinate to the
figures. The retreating ruffians bore an unmistakable resemblance to
outlawed American cowboys. The saint showed carmine ink traces of
having been most shamefully abused. But the chief interest in the
picture was divided between a lunch-basket in the foreground, from
which protruded a bottle of "St. Jacob's" oil, and a brace of vividly
pink cupids hopping about in the tree-tops, rejoicing over the magical
effect of the saintly patent medicine. His treatment of this picture
proved, if it proved anything, that Corot had gone dangerously near the
line where the sublime suggests the ridiculous.
In Fortuny's "Don Quixote" Field found a subject that tickled his fancy
and lent itself to his untrammelled sense of the absurd. According to
Mr. Larned, Fortuny's picture--a water-color--in the Walters gallery
was one which represents the immortal knight in the somewhat
undignified occupation of searching for fleas in his clothing. He has
thrown off his doublet and his under garment is rolled down to his
waist, leaving the upper portion of his body nude, excepting the
immense helmet which hides his bent-down head. Both hands grasp the
under garment, and the eyes are evidently turned in eager expectancy
upon the folds which the hands are clasping, in the hope that the
roving tormentor has at last been captured. "What an astonishing freak
of genius!" exclaimed Mr. Larned. "For genius it certainly is. The
color and the drawing of the figure are simply masterly, and the entire
tone of the picture is wonderfully rich; indeed, for a water-color, it
is quite marvellous. This is one of Fortuny's celebrated pictures, but
how the 'École des Beaux Arts' would in the old days have held up its
hands and closed its eyes in holy horror! Possibly an earnest disciple
of Lessing, even, might have a rather dubious feeling about such a
choice of subjects."
But it suited Field's pen and colored inks to a T. He entered into
Fortuny's spirit as far as he dared to go and helped it over the edge
of the merely dubious to the unmistakably safe grotesque. His own Don
Quixote was clad in modern costume, from the riding-boots and monster
spurs up to the belt. From that point his emaciated body--a fearfully
and wonderfully articulated semi-skeleton--was nude save for one or two
sporadic hairs. In the place of the traditional helmet, the Don's head
was encased in a garden watering-pot, on the spout of which, and
dominating the entire canvas, as artists say, poised on one foot and
evidently enjoying the sorrowful knight's discomfiture, was the
pestiferous _pulex irritans_.
In the Walters gallery were several pictures of child-life by Frère, in
which, according to Mr. Lamed, "every little figure is full of
character"--a fact about which there is no doubt in the accompanying
reproduction of Frère's "The Little Dressmaker," which by some chance
was preserved from those "artist days."
The completed results of our many off-hours of artist life were bound
in a volume which was presented to Mr. Larned at a formal lunch given
in his honor at the Sherman House. The speech of presentation was made
by our friend, "Colonel" James S. Norton, in what the rural paragrapher
would have described as "the most felicitous effort of his life," and
the wonderful collection was commended to Mr. Larned's grateful
preservation by the judgment of Mr. Henry Field, whose own choice
selection of paintings is the most valued possession of the Chicago Art
Institute. Mr. Field testified that he recognized everyone of the
amazing reproductions from their resemblance, grotesque in the main, to
the originals in the Walters gallery, with which he was familiar.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE DRESS-MAKER.
(Hand-drawn "SINGER" sewing machine.)
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._]
It was for this occasion that Field composed and recited his remarkable
German poem, entitled "Der Niebelrungen und der Schlabbergasterfeldt."
From the manuscript copy in my scrap-book I give the original version
of this extraordinary production, which was copied in the Illinois
Staats Zeitung and went the rounds of the German press in all the
dignity of German text and with a variety of serious criticisms truly
comical:
_DER NIEBELRUNGEN UND DER SCHLABBERGASTERFELDT
(Narratively)
Ein Niebelrungen schlossen gold
Gehabt gehaben Richter weiss
Ein Schlabbergasterfeldt un Sold
Gehaben Meister treulich heiss
"Ich dich! Ich dich!" die Maedchein tzwei
"Ich dich!" das Niebelrungen drei.
(Tragically)
Die Turnverein ist lieb und dicht
Zum Fest und lieben kleiner Geld,
Der Niebelrungen picht ein Bricht--
Und hitt das Schlabbergasterfeldt!
"Ich dich! Ich dich!" die Maedchein schreit
Und so das Schlabbergaster deit!
(Plaintively)
Ach! weh das Niebelrungen spott
Ach! weh das Maedchein Turnverein
Und unser Meister lieben Gott--
Ach! weh das Weinerwurst und Wein!
Ach! weh das Bricht zum kleiner Geld--
Ach! weh das Schlabbergasterfeldt!_
Ever after this Walters gallery incident it was my duty, so he thought,
to keep Field's desk supplied with inks, not only of every color of the
rainbow, but with lake-white, gold, silver, and bronze, and any other
kind which his whim deemed necessary to give eccentric emphasis to some
line, word or letter in whatever he chanced to be composing. His
peremptory requests were generally preferred in writing, addressed "For
the Lusty Knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, Office," and delivered by his
grinning minion, the office factotum. Sometimes they were in verse, as
in the following:
_"Who spilt my bottle of ink?" said Field,
"Who spilt my bottle of ink?"
And then with a sigh, said Thompson, "'Twas I--
I broke that bottle of ink,
I think,
And wasted the beautiful ink."
"Who'll buy a bottle of ink?" asked Field,
"Who'll buy a bottle of ink?"
With a still deeper sigh his friend replied, "I--
I'll buy a bottle of ink
With chink,
I'll buy a bottle of ink!"
"Oh, isn't this beautiful ink!" cried Field,
"Beautiful bilious ink!"
He shook the hand of his old friend, and
He tipped him a pleasant wink,
And a blink,
As he went to using that ink._
While Field insisted on a variegated assortment of inks he did not
demand a separate pen for each color. In lieu of these he possessed
himself of an old linen office coat, which he donned when it was cool
enough for a coat and used for a pen-wiper. When the temperature
rendered anything beyond shirt-sleeves superfluous, this linen affair
was hung so conveniently that he could still use it for what he
regarded as its primary use. In warm weather I wore a presentably clean
counterpart of Field's Joseph's coat of many colors. As often as
necessary this went to the laundry. One day when it had just returned
from one of these periodical visits, I was startled, but not surprised,
to find that Field had appropriated my spotless linen duster to his own
inky uses and left his own impossible creation hanging on my hook in
its stead. Field's version of what then occurred is beautifully, if not
truthfully, portrayed in the accompanying "Proper Sonet" and life-like
portraits.
If the reader will imagine each mark on the coat, of which "Nompy"
bootlessly complains, done in different colors, he will have some idea
of the infinite pains Field bestowed on the details of his epistolary
pranks.
Out of the remarkable series of postal appeals which Field sent to me
when I was visiting in New Brunswick grew an animated correspondence
between Field and my youngest sister. She bore the good old-fashioned
Christian names of Mary Matilda--a combination that struck a responsive
chord in Field's taste in nomenclature, while his "come at once, we are
starving" aroused her sense of humor to the point of forwarding an
enormous raised biscuit two thousand miles for the relief of two
Chicago sufferers. The result was an exchange of letters, one of which
has a direct bearing on his whimsical adoption of many-colored inks in
his writing. It read as follows:
[Illustration: A PROPER SONET.
_From a drawing in colors by Eugene Field._
Then Kriee 3 times his breast he smote,
And gruesome oaths swore he;
"Oh, bring back _mine_, and take _your_ coat--
Your painted coat, the which I note
Full ill besemmeth me!"
But swere and plede he as he mote,
Old Field said "No, ol' Nompy, no!
You'll get your coat not none no mo!"]
[Illustration: FIELD AND BALLANTYNE AWAITING THE ARRIVAL OF A BISCUIT
FROM NEW BRUNSWICK.
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._]
[red ink] CHICAGO, May the 7th, 1885.
[blue ink] Dear Miss:
I make bold to send herewith a diagram of the new rooms in which your
brother Slason is now [brown ink] ensconced. The drawing may be bad
and the perspective may be out of plumb, but the motif is good, as
you [green ink] will allow. All that Brother Slason needs now to
symmetrize his new abode is a box from home--a box filled [purple
ink] with those toothsome goodies which only a kind, loving,
indulgent sister can make and donate to an absent [black ink]
brother. Having completed my contribution to the Larned gallery, and
having exhibited the pictures in the [red ink] recent salon, I have a
large supply of colored inks on hand, which fact accounts for that
appearance of an [blue ink] Easter necktie or a crazy quilt which
this note has. In a few days I shall take the liberty of sending
[brown ink] you the third volume of the "Aunt Mary Matilda" series--a
tale of unusual power and interest. With [green ink] many reverential
obeisances and respectful assurances of regard, I beg to remain,
[lilac ink] Your obedient servant,
[purple ink] EUGENE FIELD,
[red ink] per
[blue ink] William Smith,
[brown ink] Secretary.
This epistle did indeed look like a crazy quilt. There was a change of
color at the beginning of each line, as I have endeavored to indicate.
It is beautifully written and in many respects besides its variegated
aspect is the most perfect specimen of Field's painstaking epistolary
handiwork I know of.
The "diagram of Mr. Slason Thompson's New Rooms" accompanying this
letter was entirely worthy of it, and must have afforded him hours of
boyish pleasure. No description can do it justice. He gave a ground
plan of two square rooms with the windows marked in red ink, the doors
in green, the bed, with a little figure on it, in blue, the fireplace
in yellow, chairs and tables in purple, and the "buttery," as he
insisted on calling the bathroom, in brown. As these apartments were in
the Pullman Building, on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams
Street, and commanded a glimpse of the lake, Field's diagram included a
representation of Lake Michigan by zigzag lines of blue ink, with a
single fish as long as a street-car, according to his scale, leering at
the spectator from the billowy depths of indigo blue. Everything in the
diagram was carefully identified in the key which accompanied it. An
idea of the infinite attention to detail Field bestowed on such
frivoling as this may be gathered from the accompanying cut of the
Pullman Building, from the seventh story of which I am shown waving a
welcome to the good but "impecunious knight." The inscription, in
Field's handwriting, tells the story.
[Illustration: THE GOOD KNIGHT SLOSSON'S CASTLE.
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
The good knight Slosson from a watch tower of his castle desenith and
salutith the good Knight Eugene, sans peur et sans monie.]
[Illustration: A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
_From drawings by Eugene Field._
No. 1
The fair Mary Matilda skimming over the hills and dales of New
Brunswick.
No. 2
Lovelorn Eddie Martin in hot pursuit of same.
No. 3
Lone pine in the deserted vale where the musquash watches for his
prey.
No. 4
Horrible discovery made by the fair Mary Matilda upon her return to
the lone pine in the secluded vale.
No. 5
All that is left of poor Eddie.]
Early in the spring of 1885 Field was inspired, by an account I gave
him of a snow-shoeing party my sister had described in one of her
letters, to compose the series of pen-and-ink tableaux reproduced on
pages 30 and 31.
An inkling as to the meaning of these weird pictures may be gleaned
from the letter I sent along with them to my sister, in which I wrote:
I was telling Field the story of your last snow-shoeing party when he
was prompted to the enclosed tragedy in five acts. He hopes that you
will not mistake the stars for mosquitoes, nor fail to comprehend the
terrible fate that has overtaken Eddy Martin at the mouth of the
voracious musquash, whose retreating tail speaks so eloquently of his
toothsome repast. The lone pine tree is a thing that you will enjoy;
also the expression of horror on your own face when you behold the
empty boots of Eddy. There is a tragedy too deep for tears in the
silent monuments of Field's ignorance of moccasins.
In explanation of the final scene in this "sad, eventful history" it
should be said that "poor Eddie" was a harmless, half-witted giant who
sawed the cord wood and did odd chores about my father's place. This
gives significance to the pendant buck-saw and the lonely wood-horse.
His lance rusts upon the wall and his steed stands silent in the stall.
The reader should not pass from these examples of Field's humor with
pen and ink without marking the changes that come across the face of
the moon as the tragedy unfolds.
That Field found a congenial spirit and correspondent in my sister is
further evidenced in the following letter written in gamboge brown:
CHICAGO, July the 2d, 1885.
DEAR MISS:
In order that you may no longer groan under the erroneous impression
which you appear to harbor, touching my physique, I remit to you a
photograph of a majority of myself. The photograph was made last
December, when I was, so to speak, at my perihelion in the matter of
avoirdupois. You may be gratified to know that I have not shrunken
much since that time. I have taken the timely precaution to label the
picture in order that none of your Fredericton people thumbing over
your domestic album shall mistake me for either a young Episcopal
rector or a rising young negro minstrel.
The several drawings and paintings I have sent you ever and anon at
your brother's expense are really not the best samples of my art. Mr.
Walter Cranston Larned, a wealthy young tennis player of this city,
has most of my _chef d'oeuvres_ in his private gallery. I hope
to be able to paint you a landscape in oil very soon. There is no
sacrifice I would not be willing to make for one whom I esteem so
highly as I do you. It might be just as well not to read this line to
the old folks. Your brother Slosson has recently developed an
insatiate passion for horse racing, and in consequence of his losses
at pools I find him less prone to regale me with sumptuous cheer than
he was before the racing season broke out. The prince, too, has
blossomed out as a patron of the track, and I am slowly becoming more
and more aware that this is a bitter world. I think I may safely say
that I look wholly to such noble, generous young women as you and
your sisters to preserve in me a consciousness that there is in life
such a boon as generosity.
You will observe (if you have any eye for color) that I pen you these
lines in gamboge brown; this is because Fourth of July is so near at
hand. This side of the line we are fairly reeking with patriotism
just now; even that mugwump-alien--your brother--contemplates
celebrating in a fitting manner the anniversary of our country's
independence of _British Tyranny_!
Will you please slap Bessie for me--the pert minx! I heard of her
remarks about my story of Mary Matilda and the Prince.
Believe me as ever,
Sincerely yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
The story of "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince" was the third in what
Field called his "Aunt Mary Matilda Series." The first of these was
"The Lonesome Little Shoe" (see "The Holy Cross and Other Tales" of his
collected works), which, after it was printed in the Morning News, was
cut out and pasted in a little brown manila pamphlet, with marginal
illustrations of the most fantastic nature. The title page of this
precious specimen of Fieldiana is characteristic:
THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE:
BEING A WONDERFUL NARRATIVE CULLED FROM
THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF EUGENE FIELD
1885.
PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED
DEDICATED TO AUNT MARY MATILDA'S PRESENT
AND FUTURE NEPHEWS AND NIECES,
THEIR HEIRS, ASSIGNS AND ASSIGNEES
FOREVER
CANADIAN TRACT SOCIETY
(COPYRIGHT)
What became of the second of this wonderful series no one knows. The
third, "How Mary Won a Prince," is the only instance that has come
under my notice where Field put any of his compositions in typewriter.
This was done to make the first edition consist of a single copy. The
prince and hero of this romantic tale was our associate, John F.
Ballantyne, and the story itself was "Inscribed to the beautiful,
accomplished, amiable and ever-to-be-revered, Miss Mary Matilda
Thompson, of Frederickton, York County, New Brunswick, Dominion of
Canada, 1885." It was said to be "elegantly illustrated," of which the
reader may judge from the accompanying reproductions.
HOW MARY MATILDA WON A PRINCE.
A gypsy had told Mary Matilda that she would marry a prince. This was
when Mary Matilda was a little girl. She had given the gypsy a nice,
fresh bun, and the gypsy was so grateful that she said she would tell
the little girl's fortune, so Mary Matilda held out her hand and the
old gypsy looked at it very closely.
"You are very generous," said the gypsy, "and your generosity will
cause a prince to fall in love with you; the prince will rescue you
from a great danger and you will wed the prince."
Having uttered these strange words, the gypsy went away and shortly
after was sentenced to ten years in the penitentiary for having
robbed a hen-roost.
Mary Matilda grew from childhood to be the most beautiful maiden in
all the province; none was so beautiful and so witty as she. Withal
she was so amiable and benevolent that all loved her, even those who
envied her the transcendent charms with which she was endowed. As the
unfortunate gypsy had predicted, Mary Matilda was the most generous
maiden on earth and the fame of her goodness was wide-spread.
Now Mary Matilda had an older brother who had gone to a far-off
country to become rich, and to accomplish those great political
reforms to which his ambition inclined him. His name was Slosson, and
in the far-off country he fell in with two young men of his own age
who were of similar ambition. But they were even poorer than Slosson,
and what particularly grieved them was the fact that their lineage
was obscured by dark clouds of doubt. That is to say, they were
unable to determine with any degree of positiveness whether they were
of noble extraction; their parents refused to inform them, and
consequently they were deeply distressed, as you can well imagine.
Slosson was much charmed with their handsome bearing, chivalric ways,
and honorable aspirations, and his pity was evoked by their poverty
and their frequent sufferings for the very requirements of life.
Freely he shared his little all with them, in return for which they
gave him their gratitude and affection. One day Slosson wrote a
letter to his sister Mary Matilda, saying: "A hard winter is coming
on and our store of provisions is nearly exhausted. My two friends
are in much distress and so am I. We have accomplished a political
revolution, but under the civil service laws we can hardly expect an
office."
Mary Matilda was profoundly touched by this letter. Her tender heart
bled whenever she thought of her absent brother, and instinctively
her sympathies went out toward his two companions in distress. So in
her own quiet, maidenly way she set about devising a means for the
relief of the unfortunate young men. She made a cake, a beautiful
cake stuffed with plums and ornamented with a lovely design
representing the lost Pleiad, which you perhaps know was a young lady
who lived long ago and acquired eternal fame by dropping out of the
procession and never getting back again. Well, Mary Matilda put this
delicious cake in a beautiful paper collar-box and sent it in all
haste to her brother and his two friends in the far-off country.
Great was Slosson's joy upon receiving this palatable boon, and great
was the joy of his two friends, who it must be confessed were on the
very brink of starvation. The messages Mary Matilda received from the
grateful young men, who owed their rescue to her, must have pleased
her, although the consciousness of a noble deed is better than words
of praise.
But one day Mary Matilda got another letter from her brother Slosson
which plunged her into profound melancholy. "Weep with me, dear
Sister," he wrote, "for one of my companions, Juan, has left me. He
was the youngest, and I fear some great misfortune has befallen him,
for he was ever brooding over the mystery of his lineage. Yesterday
he left us and we have not seen him since. He took my lavender
trousers with him."
As you may easily suppose, Mary Matilda was much cast down by this
fell intelligence. She drooped like a blighted lily and wept.
"What can ail our Mary Matilda?" queried her mother. "The roses have
vanished from her cheeks, the fire has gone out of her orbs, and her
step has lost its old-time cunning. I am much worried about her."
They all noticed her changed appearance. Even Eddie Martin, the
herculean wood-sawyer, observed the dejection with which the
sorrow-stricken maiden emerged from the house and handed him his
noontide rations of nutcakes and buttermilk. But Mary Matilda spoke
of the causes of her woe to none of them. In silence she brooded over
the mystery of Juan's disappearance.
[Illustration: THE PRINCE ASKING EDDIE MARTIN ABOUT THE FAIR MARY
MATILD.]
When the winter came and the soft, fair snow lay ten or twelve feet
deep on the level on the forest and stream, on wold and woodland,
little Bessie once asked Mary Matilda if she would not take her out
for a walk. Now little Bessie was Mary Matilda's niece, and she was
such a sweet little girl that Mary Matilda could never say "no" to
anything she asked.
"Yes, Bessie," said Mary Matilda, "if you will bundle up nice and warm
I will take you out for a short walk of twenty or thirty miles."
So Bessie bundled up nice and warm. Then Mary Matilda went out on the
porch and launched her two snow-shoes and got into them and harnessed
them to her tiny feet.
"Where are you going?" asked Eddie Martin, pausing in his work and
leaning his saw against a slab of green maple.
"I am going to take Bessie out for a short walk," replied Mary
Matilda.
"Are you not afraid to go alone?" said Eddie Martin. "You know the
musquashes are very thick, and this spell of winter weather has made
them very hungry and ferocious."
"No, I am not afraid of the musquashes," replied Mary Matilda. But
she _was_ afraid of them: only she did not want to tell Eddie
Martin so, for fear he would want to go with her. This was the first
and only wrong story Mary Matilda ever told.
Having grasped little Bessie by the hand, Mary Matilda stepped over
the fence and was soon lost to view. Scarcely had she gone when a
tall, thin, haggard looking young man came down the street and leaned
over the back gate.
"Can you tell me," he asked in weary tones, "whether the beautiful
Mary Matilda abides hereabouts?"
"She lives here," replied Eddie Martin, "but she has gone for a walk
with little Bessie."
"Whither did they drift?" queried the mysterious unknown.
"They started toward the Nashwaaksis," said Eddie Martin. "And I
sadly fear the deadly musquash will pursue them."
The stranger turned pale and trembled at the suggestion.
"Will you lend me your saw for a brief period?" he asked.
"Why?" inquired Eddie Martin.
"To rescue the fair Mary Matilda from the musquashes," replied the
stranger. Then he seized the saw, and with pale face started in the
direction Mary Matilda had gone.
Meanwhile Mary Matilda had crossed the Nashwaaksis and was speeding
in a southerly course toward the Nashwaak. The gentle breeze favored
her progress, and as she sailed along, the snow danced like frozen
feathers around her.
"Oh, how nice!" cried little Bessie.
"Yes, this clear, fresh, cold air gives one new life," said Mary
Matilda.
They now came to the Nashwaak, on the farther bank of which were
crouched a pack of hungry musquashes eagerly awaiting the approach of
Mary Matilda and little Bessie.
"Hush," whispered the old big musquash. "Make no noise or they will
hear us and make good their escape." But just then another musquash
carelessly trod on the big musquash's tail and the old musquash
roared with pain.
"What was that?" cried little Bessie.
Mary Matilda had heard the strange cry. She paused to listen. Then
she saw the pack of musquashes in the snow on the farthest bank of
the Nashwaak. Oh, how frightened she was! but with a shrill cry she
seized Bessie in her arms, and, turning swiftly about, fled in the
direction of McLeod hill. The musquashes saw her retreating, and with
a howl of commingled rage and disappointment they started in hot
pursuit. They ran like mad, as only starving musquashes can run.
Every moment they gained on the maiden and her human charge until at
last they were at her very heels. Mary Matilda remembered she had
some beechnuts in her pocket. She reached down, grasped a handful of
the succulent fruit and cast it to her insatiate pursuers. It stayed
their pursuit for a moment, but in another moment they were on her
track again, howling demoniacally. Another handful of the beechnuts
went to the ravenous horde, and still another. By this time Mary
Matilda had reached McLeod hill and was crossing the Nashwaaksis. Her
imagination pictured a scuttled brigantine lying in the frozen
stream. On its slippery deck stood a pirate, waving a gory cutlass.
[Illustration: THE PRINCE'S COAT-OF-ARMS--FLIGHT OF THE FAIR MARY
MATILDA--THE AGGRAVATING MIRAGE.]
"Ha, ha, ho, ho!" laughed the gory and bearded pirate.
"Save me!" cried Mary Matilda. "My beechnuts are all gone!"
"Throw them the baby!" answered the bearded pirate, "and save
yourself! Ha, ha, ho, ho!"
Should she do it? Should she throw little Bessie to the devouring
musquashes? No, she could not stoop to that ungenerous deed.
"No, base pirate!" she cried. "I would not so demean myself!"
But the scuttled brigantine had disappeared. Mary Matilda saw it was
a mirage. Meanwhile the musquashes gained on her. The beechnuts had
whetted their appetite. It seemed as if they were sure of their prey.
But all at once they stopped, and Mary Matilda stopped, too. They
were confronted by a haggard but manly form. It was the mysterious
young stranger, and he had a saw which Eddie Martin had lent him. His
aspect was so terrible that the musquashes turned to flee, but they
were too late. The mysterious stranger laid about him so vigorously
with his saw that the musquashes soon were in bits. Here was a tail,
there a leg; here an ear, there a nose--oh, it was a rare potpourri,
I can tell you! Finally the musquashes all were dead.
"To whom am I indebted for my salvation?" inquired Mary Matilda,
blushing deeply.
"Alas, I do not know," replied the wan stranger. "I am called Juan,
but my lineage is enveloped in gloom."
At once Mary Matilda suspected he was her brother's missing friend,
and this suspicion was confirmed by the lavender trousers he wore.
She questioned him closely, and he told her all. Bessie heard all he
said, and she could tell you more particularly than I can about it. I
only know that Juan confessed that, having tasted of Mary Matilda's
cake, he fell deeply in love with her and had come all this distance
to ask her to be his, indissolubly.
"Still," said he, sadly, "'tis too much to ask you to link your
destiny with one whose lineage is not known."
By this time they had reached the back-yard gate. Eddie Martin was
sitting on the wood-pile talking with a weird old woman. The weird
old woman scrutinized Mary Matilda closely.
"Do you know me?" she asked.
"No," said Mary Matilda.
"I have been serving ten years for a mild indiscretion," said the old
woman, sadly. "I am the gypsy who told your fortune many years ago."
Then the old gypsy's keen eyes fell on Juan, the stranger. She gave a
fierce cry.
"I have seen that face before!" she cried, trembling with emotion.
"When I knew it, it was a baby face; but the spectacles are still the
same!"
[Illustration: BROTHER SLOSSON AND HIS OTHER FRIEND EN ROUTE TO THE
WEDDING.]
Juan also quivered with emotion.
"Have you a thistle mark on your left arm?" demanded the old gypsy,
fiercely.
"Yes," he answered, hoarsely; and pulling up the sleeve of his linen
ulster he exposed the beautiful emblem on his emaciated arm.
"It is as I suspected!" cried the old gypsy. "You are the Prince of
Lochdougal, heir presumptive to the estates and titles of the
Stuarts." And with these words the old gypsy swooned in Eddie
Martin's arms.
When she came to, she explained that she had been a stewardess in the
Lochdougal castle at Inverness when Juan's parents had been exiled
for alleged conspiracy against the queen. Juan was then a prattling
babe; but even then he gave promise of a princely future. Since his
arrival at maturity his parents had feared to impart to him the
secret of his lineage, lest he might return to Scotland and attempt
to recover his estates, thereby incurring the resentment of the
existing dynasty.
Of course when she heard of his noble lineage, Mary Matilda could do
naught but accept the addresses of the brave prince. He speedily
regained his health and flesh under the grateful influences of her
cuisine. The wedding day has been set, and little Bessie is to be one
of her bridesmaids. The brother Slosson is to be present, and he is
to bring with him his other friend, whose name he will not mention,
since his lineage is still in doubt.