Chapter 1

At the Foot of the Rainbow

by

Gene Stratton-Porter

"And the bow shall be set in the cloud; and I will look upon it,

that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and

every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth."

--GENESIS, ix-16.

Contents

I. THE RAT-CATCHERS OF THE WABASH

II. RUBEN O'KHAYAM AND THE MILK PAIL

III. THE FIFTY COONS OF THE CANOPER

IV. WHEN THE KINGFISHER AND THE BLACK BASS CAME HOME

V. WHEN THE RAINBOW SET ITS ARCH IN THE SKY

VI. THE HEART OF MARY MALONE

VII. THE APPLE OF DISCORD BECOMES A JOINTED ROD

VIII. WHEN THE BLACK BASS STRUCK

IX. WHEN JIMMY MALONE CAME TO CONFESSION

X. DANNIE'S RENUNCIATION

XI. THE POT OF GOLD

GENE STRATTON-PORTER

A LITTLE STORY OF HER LIFE AND WORK

For several years Doubleday, Page & Company have been receiving

repeated requests for information about the life and books of Gene

Stratton-Porter. Her fascinating nature work with bird, flower, and

moth, and the natural wonders of the Limberlost Swamp, made famous as

the scene of her nature romances, all have stirred much curiosity among

readers everywhere.

Mrs. Porter did not possess what has been called "an aptitude for

personal publicity." Indeed, up to the present, she has discouraged

quite successfully any attempt to stress the personal note. It is

practically impossible, however, to do the kind of work she has

done--to make genuine contributions to natural science by her wonderful

field work among birds, insects, and flowers, and then, through her

romances, to bring several hundred thousands of people to love and

understand nature in a way they never did before--without arousing a

legitimate interest in her own history, her ideals, her methods of

work, and all that underlies the structure of her unusual achievement.

Her publishers have felt the pressure of this growing interest and it

was at their request that she furnished the data for a biographical

sketch that was to be written of her. But when this actually came to

hand, the present compiler found that the author had told a story so

much more interesting than anything he could write of her, that it

became merely a question of how little need be added.

The following pages are therefore adapted from what might be styled the

personal record of Gene Stratton-Porter. This will account for the very

intimate picture of family life in the Middle West for some years

following the Civil War.

Mark Stratton, the father of Gene Stratton-Porter, described his wife,

at the time of their marriage, as a "ninety-pound bit of pink

porcelain, pink as a wild rose, plump as a partridge, having a big rope

of bright brown hair, never ill a day in her life, and bearing the

loveliest name ever given a woman--Mary." He further added that "God

fashioned her heart to be gracious, her body to be the mother of

children, and as her especial gift of Grace, he put Flower Magic into

her fingers." Mary Stratton was the mother of twelve lusty babies, all

of whom she reared past eight years of age, losing two a little over

that, through an attack of scarlet fever with whooping cough; too ugly

a combination for even such a wonderful mother as she. With this brood

on her hands she found time to keep an immaculate house, to set a table

renowned in her part of the state, to entertain with unfailing

hospitality all who came to her door, to beautify her home with such

means as she could command, to embroider and fashion clothing by hand

for her children; but her great gift was conceded by all to be the

making of things to grow. At that she was wonderful. She started dainty

little vines and climbing plants from tiny seeds she found in rice and

coffee. Rooted things she soaked in water, rolled in fine sand, planted

according to habit, and they almost never failed to justify her

expectations. She even grew trees and shrubs from slips and cuttings no

one else would have thought of trying to cultivate, her last resort

being to cut a slip diagonally, insert the lower end in a small potato,

and plant as if rooted. And it nearly always grew!

There is a shaft of white stone standing at her head in a cemetery that

belonged to her on a corner of her husband's land; but to Mrs. Porter's

mind her mother's real monument is a cedar of Lebanon which she set in

the manner described above. The cedar tops the brow of a little hill

crossing the grounds. She carried two slips from Ohio, where they were

given to her by a man who had brought the trees as tiny things from the

holy Land. She planted both in this way, one in her dooryard and one in

her cemetery. The tree on the hill stands thirty feet tall now, topping

all others, and has a trunk two feet in circumference.

Mrs. Porter's mother was of Dutch extraction, and like all Dutch women

she worked her special magic with bulbs, which she favoured above other

flowers. Tulips, daffodils, star flowers, lilies, dahlias, little

bright hyacinths, that she called "blue bells," she dearly loved. From

these she distilled exquisite perfume by putting clusters, & time of

perfect bloom, in bowls lined with freshly made, unsalted butter,

covering them closely, and cutting the few drops of extract thus

obtained with alcohol. "She could do more different things," says the

author, "and finish them all in a greater degree of perfection than any

other woman I have ever known. If I were limited to one adjective in

describing her, 'capable' would be the word."

The author's father was descended from a long line of ancestors of

British blood. He was named for, and traced his origin to, that first

Mark Stratton who lived in New York, married the famous beauty, Anne

Hutchinson, and settled on Stratton Island, afterward corrupted to

Staten, according to family tradition. From that point back for

generations across the sea he followed his line to the family of

Strattons of which the Earl of Northbrooke is the present head. To his

British traditions and the customs of his family, Mark Stratton clung

with rigid tenacity, never swerving from his course a particle under

the influence of environment or association. All his ideas were

clear-cut; no man could influence him against his better judgment. He

believed in God, in courtesy, in honour, and cleanliness, in beauty,

and in education. He used to say that he would rather see a child of

his the author of a book of which he could be proud, than on the throne

of England, which was the strongest way he knew to express himself. His

very first earnings he spent for a book; when other men rested, he

read; all his life he was a student of extraordinarily tenacious

memory. He especially loved history: Rollands, Wilson's Outlines, Hume,

Macauley, Gibbon, Prescott, and Bancroft, he could quote from all of

them paragraphs at a time contrasting the views of different writers on

a given event, and remembering dates with unfailing accuracy. "He could

repeat the entire Bible," says Mrs. Stratton-Porter, "giving chapters

and verses, save the books of Generations; these he said 'were a waste

of gray matter to learn.' I never knew him to fail in telling where any

verse quoted to him was to be found in the Bible." And she adds: "I was

almost afraid to make these statements, although there are many living

who can corroborate them, until John Muir published the story of his

boyhood days, and in it I found the history of such rearing as was my

father's, told of as the customary thing among the children of Muir's

time; and I have referred many inquirers as to whether this feat were

possible, to the Muir book."

All his life, with no thought of fatigue or of inconvenience to

himself, Mark Stratton travelled miles uncounted to share what he had

learned with those less fortunately situated, by delivering sermons,

lectures, talks on civic improvement and politics. To him the love of

God could be shown so genuinely in no other way as in the love of his

fellowmen. He worshipped beauty: beautiful faces, souls, hearts,

beautiful landscapes, trees, animals, flowers. He loved colour: rich,

bright colour, and every variation down to the faintest shadings. He

was especially fond of red, and the author carefully keeps a cardinal

silk handkerchief that he was carrying when stricken with apoplexy at

the age of seventy-eight. "It was so like him," she comments, "to have

that scrap of vivid colour in his pocket. He never was too busy to

fertilize a flower bed or to dig holes for the setting of a tree or

bush. A word constantly on his lips was 'tidy.' It applied equally to a

woman, a house, a field, or a barn lot. He had a streak of genius in

his make-up: the genius of large appreciation. Over inspired Biblical

passages, over great books, over sunlit landscapes, over a white violet

abloom in deep shade, over a heroic deed of man, I have seen his brow

light up, his eyes shine."

Mrs. Porter tells us that her father was constantly reading aloud to

his children and to visitors descriptions of the great deeds of men.

Two "hair-raisers" she especially remembers with increased heart-beats

to this day were the story of John Maynard, who piloted a burning boat

to safety while he slowly roasted at the wheel. She says the old thrill

comes back when she recalls the inflection of her father's voice as he

would cry in imitation of the captain: "John Maynard!" and then give

the reply. "Aye, aye, sir!" His other until it sank to a mere gasp:

favourite was the story of Clemanthe, and her lover's immortal answer

to her question: "Shall we meet again?"

To this mother at forty-six, and this father at fifty, each at

intellectual top-notch, every faculty having been stirred for years by

the dire stress of Civil War, and the period immediately following, the

author was born. From childhood she recalls "thinking things which she

felt should be saved," and frequently tugging at her mother's skirts

and begging her to "set down" what the child considered stories and

poems. Most of these were some big fact in nature that thrilled her,

usually expressed in Biblical terms; for the Bible was read twice a day

before the family and helpers, and an average of three services were

attended on Sunday.

Mrs. Porter says that her first all-alone effort was printed in wabbly

letters on the fly-leaf of an old grammar. It was entitled: "Ode to the

Moon." "Not," she comments, "that I had an idea what an 'ode' was,

other than that I had heard it discussed in the family together with

different forms of poetic expression. The spelling must have been by

proxy: but I did know the words I used, what they meant, and the idea I

was trying to convey.

"No other farm was ever quite so lovely as the one on which I was born

after this father and mother had spent twenty-five years beautifying

it," says the author. It was called "Hopewell" after the home of some

of her father's British ancestors. The natural location was perfect,

the land rolling and hilly, with several flowing springs and little

streams crossing it in three directions, while plenty of forest still

remained. The days of pioneer struggles were past. The roads were

smooth and level as floors, the house and barn commodious; the family

rode abroad in a double carriage trimmed in patent leather, drawn by a

matched team of gray horses, and sometimes the father "speeded a

little" for the delight of the children. "We had comfortable clothing,"

says Mrs. Porter, "and were getting our joy from life without that

pinch of anxiety which must have existed in the beginning, although I

know that father and mother always held steady, and took a large

measure of joy from life in passing."

Her mother's health, which always had been perfect, broke about the

time of the author's first remembrance due to typhoid fever contracted

after nursing three of her children through it. She lived for several

years, but with continual suffering, amounting at times to positive

torture.

So it happened, that led by impulse and aided by an escape from the

training given her sisters, instead of "sitting on a cushion and sewing

a fine seam"--the threads of the fabric had to be counted and just so

many allowed to each stitch!--this youngest child of a numerous

household spent her waking hours with the wild. She followed her father

and the boys afield, and when tired out slept on their coats in fence

corners, often awaking with shy creatures peering into her face. She

wandered where she pleased, amusing herself with birds, flowers,

insects, and plays she invented. "By the day," writes the author, "I

trotted from one object which attracted me to another, singing a little

song of made-up phrases about everything I saw while I waded catching

fish, chasing butterflies over clover fields, or following a bird with

a hair in its beak; much of the time I carried the inevitable baby for

a woman-child, frequently improvised from an ear of corn in the silk,

wrapped in catalpa leaf blankets."

She had a corner of the garden under a big Bartlett pear tree for her

very own, and each spring she began by planting radishes and lettuce

when the gardening was done; and before these had time to sprout she

set the same beds full of spring flowers, and so followed out the

season. She made special pets of the birds, locating nest after nest,

and immediately projecting herself into the daily life of the

occupants. "No one," she says, "ever taught me more than that the birds

were useful, a gift of God for our protection from insect pests on

fruit and crops; and a gift of Grace in their beauty and music, things

to be rigidly protected. From this cue I evolved the idea myself that I

must be extremely careful, for had not my father tied a 'kerchief over

my mouth when he lifted me for a peep into the nest of the

humming-bird, and did he not walk softly and whisper when he approached

the spot? So I stepped lightly, made no noise, and watched until I knew

what a mother bird fed her young before I began dropping bugs, worms,

crumbs, and fruit into little red mouths that opened at my tap on the

nest quite as readily as at the touch of the feet of the mother bird."

In the nature of this child of the out-of-doors there ran a fibre of

care for wild things. It was instinct with her to go slowly, to touch

lightly, to deal lovingly with every living thing: flower, moth, bird,

or animal. She never gathered great handfuls of frail wild flowers,

carried them an hour and threw them away. If she picked any, she took

only a few, mostly to lay on her mother's pillow--for she had a habit

of drawing comfort from a cinnamon pink or a trillium laid where its

delicate fragrance reached her with every breath. "I am quite sure,"

Mrs. Porter writes, "that I never in my life, in picking flowers,

dragged up the plant by the roots, as I frequently saw other people do.

I was taught from infancy to CUT a bloom I wanted. My regular habit was

to lift one plant of each kind, especially if it were a species new to

me, and set it in my wild-flower garden."

To the birds and flowers the child added moths and butterflies, because

she saw them so frequently, the brilliance of colour in yard and garden

attracting more than could be found elsewhere. So she grew with the

wild, loving, studying, giving all her time. "I fed butterflies

sweetened water and rose leaves inside the screen of a cellar window,"

Mrs. Porter tells us; "doctored all the sick and wounded birds and

animals the men brought me from afield; made pets of the baby squirrels

and rabbits they carried in for my amusement; collected wild flowers;

and as I grew older, gathered arrow points and goose quills for sale in

Fort Wayne. So I had the first money I ever earned."

Her father and mother had strong artistic tendencies, although they

would have scoffed at the idea themselves, yet the manner in which they

laid off their fields, the home they built, the growing things they

preserved, the way they planted, the life they led, all go to prove

exactly that thing. Their bush--and vine-covered fences crept around

the acres they owned in a strip of gaudy colour; their orchard lay in a

valley, a square of apple trees in the centre widely bordered by peach,

so that it appeared at bloom time like a great pink-bordered white

blanket on the face of earth. Swale they might have drained, and would

not, made sheets of blue flag, marigold and buttercups. From the home

you could not look in any direction without seeing a picture of beauty.

"Last spring," the author writes in a recent letter, "I went back with

my mind fully made up to buy that land at any reasonable price, restore

it to the exact condition in which I knew it as a child, and finish my

life there. I found that the house had been burned, killing all the big

trees set by my mother's hands immediately surrounding it. The hills

were shorn and ploughed down, filling and obliterating the creeks and

springs. Most of the forest had been cut, and stood in corn. My old

catalpa in the fence corner beside the road and the Bartlett pear under

which I had my wild-flower garden were all that was left of the

dooryard, while a few gnarled apple trees remained of the orchard,

which had been reset in another place. The garden had been moved, also

the lanes; the one creek remaining out of three crossed the meadow at

the foot of the orchard. It flowed a sickly current over a dredged bed

between bare, straight banks. The whole place seemed worse than a

dilapidated graveyard to me. All my love and ten times the money I had

at command never could have put back the face of nature as I knew it on

that land."

As a child the author had very few books, only three of her own outside

of school books. "The markets did not afford the miracles common with

the children of today," she adds. "Books are now so numerous, so cheap,

and so bewildering in colour and make-up, that I sometimes think our

children are losing their perspective and caring for none of them as I

loved my few plain little ones filled with short story and poem, almost

no illustration. I had a treasure house in the school books of my

elders, especially the McGuffey series of Readers from One to Six. For

pictures I was driven to the Bible, dictionary, historical works read

by my father, agricultural papers, and medical books about cattle and

sheep.

"Near the time of my mother's passing we moved from Hopewell to the

city of Wabash in order that she might have constant medical attention,

and the younger children better opportunities for schooling. Here we

had magazines and more books in which I was interested. The one volume

in which my heart was enwrapt was a collection of masterpieces of

fiction belonging to my eldest sister. It contained 'Paul and

Virginia,' 'Undine,' 'Picciola,' 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' 'Pilgrim's

Progress,' and several others I soon learned by heart, and the reading

and rereading of those exquisitely expressed and conceived stories may

have done much in forming high conceptions of what really constitutes

literature and in furthering the lofty ideals instilled by my parents.

One of these stories formed the basis of my first publicly recognized

literary effort."

Reared by people who constantly pointed out every natural beauty, using

it wherever possible to drive home a precept, the child lived

out-of-doors with the wild almost entirely. If she reported promptly

three times a day when the bell rang at meal time, with enough clothing

to constitute a decent covering, nothing more was asked until the

Sabbath. To be taken from such freedom, her feet shod, her body

restricted by as much clothing as ever had been worn on Sunday, shut up

in a schoolroom, and set to droning over books, most of which she

detested, was the worst punishment ever inflicted upon her she

declares. She hated mathematics in any form and spent all her time on

natural science, language, and literature. "Friday afternoon," writes

Mrs. Porter, "was always taken up with an exercise called

'rhetoricals,' a misnomer as a rule, but let that pass. Each week

pupils of one of the four years furnished entertainment for the

assembled high school and faculty. Our subjects were always assigned,

and we cordially disliked them. This particular day I was to have a

paper on 'Mathematical Law.'

"I put off the work until my paper had been called for several times,

and so came to Thursday night with excuses and not a line. I was told

to bring my work the next morning without fail. I went home in hot

anger. Why in all this beautiful world, would they not allow me to do

something I could do, and let any one of four members of my class who

revelled in mathematics do my subject? That evening I was distracted.

'I can't do a paper on mathematics, and I won't!' I said stoutly; 'but

I'll do such a paper on a subject I can write about as will open their

foolish eyes and make them see how wrong they are.'"

Before me on the table lay the book I loved, the most wonderful story

in which was 'Picciola' by Saintine. Instantly I began to write.

Breathlessly I wrote for hours. I exceeded our limit ten times over.

The poor Italian Count, the victim of political offences, shut by

Napoleon from the wonderful grounds, mansion, and life that were his,

restricted to the bare prison walls of Fenestrella, deprived of books

and writing material, his one interest in life became a sprout of

green, sprung, no doubt, from a seed dropped by a passing bird, between

the stone flagging of the prison yard before his window. With him I had

watched over it through all the years since I first had access to the

book; with him I had prayed for it. I had broken into a cold sweat of

fear when the jailer first menaced it; I had hated the wind that bent

it roughly, and implored the sun. I had sung a paean of joy at its

budding, and worshipped in awe before its thirty perfect blossoms. The

Count had named it 'Picciola'--the little one--to me also it was a

personal possession. That night we lived the life of our 'little one'

over again, the Count and I, and never were our anxieties and our joys

more poignant.

"Next morning," says Mrs. Porter, "I dared my crowd to see how long

they could remain on the grounds, and yet reach the assembly room

before the last toll of the bell. This scheme worked. Coming in so late

the principal opened exercises without remembering my paper. Again, at

noon, I was as late as I dared be, and I escaped until near the close

of the exercises, through which I sat in cold fear. When my name was

reached at last the principal looked at me inquiringly and then

announced my inspiring mathematical subject. I arose, walked to the

front, and made my best bow. Then I said: 'I waited until yesterday

because I knew absolutely nothing about my subject'--the audience

laughed--'and I could find nothing either here or in the library at

home, so last night I reviewed Saintine's masterpiece, "Picciola."'

"Then instantly I began to read. I was almost paralyzed at my audacity,

and with each word I expected to hear a terse little interruption.

Imagine my amazement when I heard at the end of the first page: 'Wait a

minute!' Of course I waited, and the principal left the room. A moment

later she reappeared accompanied by the superintendent of the city

schools. 'Begin again,' she said. 'Take your time.'

"I was too amazed to speak. Then thought came in a rush. My paper was

good. It was as good as I had believed it. It was better than I had

known. I did go on! We took that assembly room and the corps of

teachers into our confidence, the Count and I, and told them all that

was in our hearts about a little flower that sprang between the paving

stones of a prison yard. The Count and I were free spirits. From the

book I had learned that. He got into political trouble through it, and

I had got into mathematical trouble, and we told our troubles. One

instant the room was in laughter, the next the boys bowed their heads,

and the girls who had forgotten their handkerchiefs cried in their

aprons. For almost sixteen big foolscap pages I held them, and I was

eager to go on and tell them more about it when I reached the last

line. Never again was a subject forced upon me."

After this incident of her schooldays, what had been inclination before

was aroused to determination and the child neglected her lessons to

write. A volume of crude verse fashioned after the metre of Meredith's

"Lucile," a romantic book in rhyme, and two novels were the fruits of

this youthful ardour. Through the sickness and death of a sister, the

author missed the last three months of school, but, she remarks,

"unlike my schoolmates, I studied harder after leaving school than ever

before and in a manner that did me real good. The most that can be said

of what education I have is that it is the very best kind in the world

for me; the only possible kind that would not ruin a person of my

inclinations. The others of my family had been to college; I always

have been too thankful for words that circumstances intervened which

saved my brain from being run through a groove in company with dozens

of others of widely different tastes and mentality. What small measure

of success I have had has come through preserving my individual point

of view, method of expression, and following in after life the Spartan

regulations of my girlhood home. Whatever I have been able to do, has

been done through the line of education my father saw fit to give me,

and through his and my mother's methods of rearing me.

"My mother went out too soon to know, and my father never saw one of

the books; but he knew I was boiling and bubbling like a yeast jar in

July over some literary work, and if I timidly slipped to him with a

composition, or a faulty poem, he saw good in it, and made suggestions

for its betterment. When I wanted to express something in colour, he

went to an artist, sketched a design for an easel, personally

superintended the carpenter who built it, and provided tuition. On that

same easel I painted the water colours for 'Moths of the Limberlost,'

and one of the most poignant regrets of my life is that he was not

there to see them, and to know that the easel which he built through

his faith in me was finally used in illustrating a book.

"If I thought it was music through which I could express myself, he

paid for lessons and detected hidden ability that should be developed.

Through the days of struggle he stood fast; firm in his belief in me.

He was half the battle. It was he who demanded a physical standard that

developed strength to endure the rigours of scientific field and

darkroom work, and the building of ten books in ten years, five of

which were on nature subjects, having my own illustrations, and five

novels, literally teeming with natural history, true to nature. It was

he who demanded of me from birth the finishing of any task I attempted

and who taught me to cultivate patience to watch and wait, even years,

if necessary, to find and secure material I wanted. It was he who daily

lived before me the life of exactly such a man as I portrayed in 'The

Harvester,' and who constantly used every atom of brain and body power

to help and to encourage all men to do the same."

Marriage, a home of her own, and a daughter for a time filled the

author's hands, but never her whole heart and brain. The book fever lay

dormant a while, and then it became a compelling influence. It

dominated the life she lived, the cabin she designed for their home,

and the books she read. When her daughter was old enough to go to

school, Mrs. Porter's time came. Speaking of this period, she says: "I

could not afford a maid, but I was very strong, vital to the marrow,

and I knew how to manage life to make it meet my needs, thanks to even

the small amount I had seen of my mother. I kept a cabin of fourteen

rooms, and kept it immaculate. I made most of my daughter's clothes, I

kept a conservatory in which there bloomed from three to six hundred

bulbs every winter, tended a house of canaries and linnets, and cooked

and washed dishes besides three times a day. In my spare time (mark the

word, there was time to spare else the books never would have been

written and the pictures made) I mastered photography to such a degree

that the manufacturers of one of our finest brands of print paper once

sent the manager of their factory to me to learn how I handled it. He

frankly said that they could obtain no such results with it as I did.

He wanted to see my darkroom, examine my paraphernalia, and have me

tell him exactly how I worked. As I was using the family bathroom for a

darkroom and washing negatives and prints on turkey platters in the

kitchen, I was rather put to it when it came to giving an exhibition.

It was scarcely my fault if men could not handle the paper they

manufactured so that it produced the results that I obtained, so I said

I thought the difference might lie in the chemical properties of the

water, and sent this man on his way satisfied. Possibly it did. But I

have a shrewd suspicion it lay in high-grade plates, a careful

exposure, judicious development, with self-compounded chemicals

straight from the factory, and C.P. I think plates swabbed with wet

cotton before development, intensified if of short exposure, and

thoroughly swabbed again before drying, had much to do with it; and

paper handled in the same painstaking manner had more. I have hundreds

of negatives in my closet made twelve years ago, in perfect condition

for printing from to-day, and I never have lost a plate through fog

from imperfect development and hasty washing; so my little mother's

rule of 'whatsoever thy hands find to do, do it with thy might,' held

good in photography."

Thus had Mrs. Porter made time to study and to write, and editors began

to accept what she sent them with little if any changes. She began by

sending photographic and natural history hints to Recreation, and with

the first installment was asked to take charge of the department and

furnish material each month for which she was to be paid at current

prices in high-grade photographic material. We can form some idea of

the work she did under this arrangement from the fact that she had over

one thousand dollars' worth of equipment at the end of the first year.

The second year she increased this by five hundred, and then accepted a

place on the natural history staff of Outing, working closely with Mr.

Casper Whitney. After a year of this helpful experience Mrs. Porter

began to turn her attention to what she calls "nature studies sugar

coated with fiction." Mixing some childhood fact with a large degree of

grown-up fiction, she wrote a little story entitled "Laddie, the

Princess, and the Pie."

"I was abnormally sensitive," says the author, "about trying to

accomplish any given thing and failing. I had been taught in my home

that it was black disgrace to undertake anything and fail. My husband

owned a drug and book store that carried magazines, and it was not

possible to conduct departments in any of them and not have it known;

but only a few people in our locality read these publications, none of

them were interested in nature photography, or natural science, so what

I was trying to do was not realized even by my own family.

"With them I was much more timid than with the neighbours. Least of all

did I want to fail before my man Person and my daughter and our

respective families; so I worked in secret, sent in my material, and

kept as quiet about it as possible. On Outing I had graduated from the

camera department to an illustrated article each month, and as this

kept up the year round, and few illustrations could be made in winter,

it meant that I must secure enough photographs of wild life in summer

to last during the part of the year when few were to be had.

"Every fair day I spent afield, and my little black horse and load of

cameras, ropes, and ladders became a familiar sight to the country folk

of the Limberlost, in Rainbow Bottom, the Canoper, on the banks of the

Wabash, in woods and thickets and beside the roads; but few people

understood what I was trying to do, none of them what it would mean

were I to succeed. Being so afraid of failure and the inevitable

ridicule in a community where I was already severly criticised on

account of my ideas of housekeeping, dress, and social customs, I

purposely kept everything I did as quiet as possible. It had to be

known that I was interested in everything afield, and making pictures;

also that I was writing field sketches for nature publications, but

little was thought of it, save as one more, peculiarity, in me. So when

my little story was finished I went to our store and looked over the

magazines. I chose one to which we did not subscribe, having an

attractive cover, good type, and paper, and on the back of an old

envelope, behind the counter, I scribbled: Perriton Maxwell, 116 Nassau

Street, New York, and sent my story on its way.

"Then I took a bold step, the first in my self-emancipation. Money was

beginning to come in, and I had some in my purse of my very own that I

had earned when no one even knew I was working. I argued that if I kept

my family so comfortable that they missed nothing from their usual

routine, it was my right to do what I could toward furthering my

personal ambitions in what time I could save from my housework. And

until I could earn enough to hire capable people to take my place, I

held rigidly to that rule. I who waded morass, fought quicksands,

crept, worked from ladders high in air, and crossed water on improvised

rafts without a tremor, slipped with many misgivings into the

postoffice and rented a box for myself, so that if I met with failure

my husband and the men in the bank need not know what I had attempted.

That was early May; all summer I waited. I had heard that it required a

long time for an editor to read and to pass on matter sent him; but my

waiting did seem out of all reason. I was too busy keeping my cabin and

doing field work to repine; but I decided in my own mind that Mr.

Maxwell was a 'mean old thing' to throw away my story and keep the

return postage. Besides, I was deeply chagrined, for I had thought

quite well of my effort myself, and this seemed to prove that I did not

know even the first principles of what would be considered an

interesting story.

"Then one day in September I went into our store on an errand and the

manager said to me: 'I read your story in the Metropolitan last night.

It was great! Did you ever write any fiction before?'

"My head whirled, but I had learned to keep my own counsels, so I said

as lightly as I could, while my heart beat until I feared he could hear

it: 'No. Just a simple little thing! Have you any spare copies? My

sister might want one.'

"He supplied me, so I hurried home, and shutting myself in the library,

I sat down to look my first attempt at fiction in the face. I quite

agreed with the manager that it was 'great.' Then I wrote Mr. Maxwell a

note telling him that I had seen my story in his magazine, and saying

that I was glad he liked it enough to use it. I had not known a letter

could reach New York and bring a reply so quickly as his answer came.

It was a letter that warmed the deep of my heart. Mr. Maxwell wrote

that he liked my story very much, but the office boy had lost or

destroyed my address with the wrappings, so after waiting a reasonable

length of time to hear from me, he had illustrated it the best he

could, and printed it. He wrote that so many people had spoken to him

of a new, fresh note in it, that he wished me to consider doing him

another in a similar vein for a Christmas leader and he enclosed my

very first check for fiction.

"So I wrote: 'How Laddie and the Princess Spelled Down at the Christmas

Bee.' Mr. Maxwell was pleased to accept that also, with what I

considered high praise, and to ask me to furnish the illustrations. He

specified that he wanted a frontispiece, head and tail pieces, and six

or seven other illustrations. Counting out the time for his letter to

reach me, and the material to return, I was left with just ONE day in

which to secure the pictures. They had to be of people costumed in the

time of the early seventies and I was short of print paper and

chemicals. First, I telephoned to Fort Wayne for the material I wanted

to be sent without fail on the afternoon train. Then I drove to the

homes of the people I wished to use for subjects and made appointments

for sittings, and ransacked the cabin for costumes. The letter came on

the eight A.M. train. At ten o'clock I was photographing Colonel Lupton

beside my dining-room fireplace for the father in the story. At eleven

I was dressing and posing Miss Lizzie Huart for the princess. At twelve

I was picturing in one of my bed rooms a child who served finely for

Little Sister, and an hour later the same child in a cemetery three

miles in the country where I used mounted butterflies from my cases,

and potted plants carried from my conservatory, for a graveyard scene.

The time was early November, but God granted sunshine that day, and

short focus blurred the background. At four o'clock I was at the

schoolhouse, and in the best-lighted room with five or six models, I

was working on the spelling bee scenes. By six I was in the darkroom

developing and drying these plates, every one of which was good enough

to use. I did my best work with printing-out paper, but I was compelled

to use a developing paper in this extremity, because it could be worked

with much more speed, dried a little between blotters, and mounted. At

three o'clock in the morning I was typing the quotations for the

pictures, at four the parcel stood in the hall for the six o'clock

train, and I realized that I wanted a drink, food, and sleep, for I had

not stopped a second for anything from the time of reading Mr.

Maxwell's letter until his order was ready to mail. For the following

ten years I was equally prompt in doing all work I undertook, whether

pictures or manuscript, without a thought of consideration for self;

and I disappointed the confident expectations of my nearest and dearest

by remaining sane, normal, and almost without exception the healthiest

woman they knew."

This story and its pictures were much praised, and in the following

year the author was asked for several stories, and even used bird

pictures and natural history sketches, quite an innovation for a

magazine at that time. With this encouragement she wrote and

illustrated a short story of about ten thousand words, and sent it to

the Century. Richard Watson Gilder advised Mrs. Porter to enlarge it to

book size, which she did. This book is "The Cardinal." Following Mr.

Gilder's advice, she recast the tale and, starting with the mangled

body of a cardinal some marksman had left in the road she was

travelling, in a fervour of love for the birds and indignation at the

hunter, she told the Cardinal's life history in these pages.

The story was promptly accepted and the book was published with very

beautiful half-tones, and cardinal buckram cover. Incidentally, neither

the author's husband nor daughter had the slightest idea she was

attempting to write a book until work had progressed to that stage

where she could not make a legal contract without her husband's

signature. During the ten years of its life this book has gone through

eight different editions, varying in form and make-up from the birds in

exquisite colour, as colour work advanced and became feasible, to a

binding of beautiful red morocco, a number of editions of differing

design intervening. One was tried in gray binding, the colour of the

female cardinal, with the red male used as an inset. Another was

woodsgreen with the red male, and another red with a wild rose design

stamped in. There is a British edition published by Hodder and

Stoughton. All of these had the author's own illustrations which

authorities agree are the most complete studies of the home life and

relations of a pair of birds ever published.

The story of these illustrations in "The Cardinal" and how the author

got them will be a revelation to most readers. Mrs. Porter set out to

make this the most complete set of bird illustrations ever secured, in

an effort to awaken people to the wonder and beauty and value of the

birds. She had worked around half a dozen nests for two years and had

carried a lemon tree from her conservatory to the location of one nest,

buried the tub, and introduced the branches among those the birds used

in approaching their home that she might secure proper illustrations

for the opening chapter, which was placed in the South. When the

complete bird series was finished, the difficult work over, and there

remained only a few characteristic Wabash River studies of flowers,

vines, and bushes for chapter tail pieces to be secured, the author

"met her Jonah," and her escape was little short of a miracle.

After a particularly strenuous spring afield, one teeming day in early

August she spent the morning in the river bottom beside the Wabash. A

heavy rain followed by August sun soon had her dripping while she made

several studies of wild morning glories, but she was particularly

careful to wrap up and drive slowly going home, so that she would not

chill. In the afternoon the author went to the river northeast of town

to secure mallow pictures for another chapter, and after working in

burning sun on the river bank until exhausted, she several times waded

the river to examine bushes on the opposite bank. On the way home she

had a severe chill, and for the following three weeks lay twisted in

the convulsions of congestion, insensible most of the time. Skilled

doctors and nurses did their best, which they admitted would have

availed nothing if the patient had not had a constitution without a

flaw upon which to work.

"This is the history," said Mrs. Porter, "of one little tail piece

among the pictures. There were about thirty others, none so strenuous,

but none easy, each having a living, fighting history for me. If I were

to give in detail the story of the two years' work required to secure

the set of bird studies illustrating 'The Cardinal,' it would make a

much larger book than the life of the bird."

"The Cardinal" was published in June of 1903. On the 20th of October,

1904, "Freckles" appeared. Mrs. Porter had been delving afield with all

her heart and strength for several years, and in the course of her work

had spent every other day for three months in the Limberlost swamp,

making a series of studies of the nest of a black vulture. Early in her

married life she had met a Scotch lumberman, who told her of the swamp

and of securing fine timber there for Canadian shipbuilders, and later

when she had moved to within less than a mile of its northern boundary,

she met a man who was buying curly maple, black walnut, golden oak,

wild cherry, and other wood extremely valuable for a big furniture

factory in Grand Rapids. There was one particular woman, of all those

the author worked among, who exercised herself most concerning her. She

never failed to come out if she saw her driving down the lane to the

woods, and caution her to be careful. If she felt that Mrs. Porter had

become interested and forgotten that it was long past meal time, she

would send out food and water or buttermilk to refresh her. She had her

family posted, and if any of them saw a bird with a straw or a hair in

its beak, they followed until they found its location. It was her

husband who drove the stake and ploughed around the killdeer nest in

the cornfield to save it for the author; and he did many other acts of

kindness without understanding exactly what he was doing or why.

"Merely that I wanted certain things was enough for those people,"

writes Mrs. Porter. "Without question they helped me in every way their

big hearts could suggest to them, because they loved to be kind, and to

be generous was natural with them. The woman was busy keeping house and

mothering a big brood, and every living creature that came her way,

besides. She took me in, and I put her soul, body, red head, and all,

into Sarah Duncan. The lumber and furniture man I combined in McLean.

Freckles was a composite of certain ideals and my own field

experiences, merged with those of Mr. Bob Burdette Black, who, at the

expense of much time and careful work, had done more for me than any

other ten men afield. The Angel was an idealized picture of my daughter.

"I dedicated the book to my husband, Mr. Charles Darwin Porter, for

several reasons, the chiefest being that he deserved it. When word was

brought me by lumbermen of the nest of the Black Vulture in the

Limberlost, I hastened to tell my husband the wonderful story of the

big black bird, the downy white baby, the pale blue egg, and to beg

back a rashly made promise not to work in the Limberlost. Being a

natural history enthusiast himself, he agreed that I must go; but he

qualified the assent with the proviso that no one less careful of me

than he, might accompany me there. His business had forced him to allow

me to work alone, with hired guides or the help of oilmen and farmers

elsewhere; but a Limberlost trip at that time was not to be joked

about. It had not been shorn, branded, and tamed. There were most

excellent reasons why I should not go there. Much of it was

impenetrable. Only a few trees had been taken out; oilmen were just

invading it. In its physical aspect it was a treacherous swamp and

quagmire filled with every plant, animal, and human danger known in the

worst of such locations in the Central States.

"A rod inside the swamp on a road leading to an oil well we mired to

the carriage hubs. I shielded my camera in my arms and before we

reached the well I thought the conveyance would be torn to pieces and

the horse stalled. At the well we started on foot, Mr. Porter in

kneeboots, I in waist-high waders. The time was late June; we forced

our way between steaming, fetid pools, through swarms of gnats, flies,

mosquitoes, poisonous insects, keeping a sharp watch for rattlesnakes.

We sank ankle deep at every step, and logs we thought solid broke under

us. Our progress was a steady succession of prying and pulling each

other to the surface. Our clothing was wringing wet, and the exposed

parts of our bodies lumpy with bites and stings. My husband found the

tree, cleared the opening to the great prostrate log, traversed its

unspeakable odours for nearly forty feet to its farthest recess, and

brought the baby and egg to the light in his leaf-lined hat.

"We could endure the location only by dipping napkins in deodorant and

binding them over our mouths and nostrils. Every third day for almost

three months we made this trip, until Little Chicken was able to take

wing. Of course we soon made a road to the tree, grew accustomed to the

disagreeable features of the swamp and contemptuously familiar with its

dangers, so that I worked anywhere in it I chose with other assistance;

but no trip was so hard and disagreeable as the first. Mr. Porter

insisted upon finishing the Little Chicken series, so that 'deserve' is

a poor word for any honour that might accrue to him for his part in the

book."

This was the nucleus of the book, but the story itself originated from

the fact that one day, while leaving the swamp, a big feather with a

shaft over twenty inches long came spinning and swirling earthward and

fell in the author's path. Instantly she looked upward to locate the

bird, which from the size and formation of the quill could have been

nothing but an eagle; her eyes, well trained and fairly keen though

they were, could not see the bird, which must have been soaring above

range. Familiar with the life of the vulture family, the author changed

the bird from which the feather fell to that described in "Freckles."

Mrs. Porter had the old swamp at that time practically untouched, and

all its traditions to work upon and stores of natural history material.

This falling feather began the book which in a few days she had

definitely planned and in six months completely written. Her title for

it was "The Falling Feather," that tangible thing which came drifting

down from Nowhere, just as the boy came, and she has always regretted

the change to "Freckles." John Murray publishes a British edition of

this book which is even better liked in Ireland and Scotland than in

England.

As "The Cardinal" was published originally not by Doubleday, Page &

Company, but by another firm, the author had talked over with the

latter house the scheme of "Freckles" and it had been agreed to publish

the story as soon as Mrs. Porter was ready. How the book finally came

to Doubleday, Page & Company she recounts as follows:

"By the time 'Freckles' was finished, I had exercised my woman's

prerogative and 'changed my mind'; so I sent the manuscript to

Doubleday, Page & Company, who accepted it. They liked it well enough

to take a special interest in it and to bring it out with greater

expense than it was at all customary to put upon a novel at that time;

and this in face of the fact that they had repeatedly warned me that

the nature work in it would kill fully half its chances with the

public. Mr. F.N. Doubleday, starting on a trip to the Bahamas, remarked

that he would like to take a manuscript with him to read, and the

office force decided to put 'Freckles' into his grip. The story of the

plucky young chap won his way to the heart of the publishers, under a

silk cotton tree, 'neath bright southern skies, and made such a friend

of him that through the years of its book-life it has been the object

of special attention. Mr. George Doran gave me a photograph which Mr.

Horace MacFarland made of Mr. Doubleday during this reading of the Mss.

of 'Freckles' which is especially interesting."

That more than 2,000,000 readers have found pleasure and profit in Mrs.

Porter's books is a cause for particular gratification. These stories

all have, as a fundamental reason of their existence, the author's

great love of nature. To have imparted this love to others--to have

inspired many hundreds of thousands to look for the first time with

seeing eyes at the pageant of the out-of-doors--is a satisfaction that

must endure. For the part of the publishers, they began their business

by issuing "Nature Books" at a time when the sale of such works was

problematical. As their tastes and inclinations were along the same

lines which Mrs. Porter loved to follow, it gave them great pleasure to

be associated with her books which opened the eyes of so great a public

to new and worthy fields of enjoyment.

The history of "Freckles" is unique. The publishers had inserted

marginal drawings on many pages, but these, instead of attracting

attention to the nature charm of the book, seemed to have exactly a

contrary effect. The public wanted a novel. The illustrations made it

appear to be a nature book, and it required three long slow years for

"Freckles" to pass from hand to hand and prove that there really was a

novel between the covers, but that it was a story that took its own

time and wound slowly toward its end, stopping its leisurely course for

bird, flower, lichen face, blue sky, perfumed wind, and the closest

intimacies of the daily life of common folk. Ten years have wrought a

great change in the sentiment against nature work and the interest in

it. Thousands who then looked upon the world with unobserving eyes are

now straining every nerve to accumulate enough to be able to end life

where they may have bird, flower, and tree for daily companions.

Mrs. Porter's account of the advice she received at this time is

particularly interesting. Three editors who read "Freckles" before it

was published offered to produce it, but all of them expressed

precisely the same opinion: "The book will never sell well as it is. If

you want to live from the proceeds of your work, if you want to sell

even moderately, you must CUT OUT THE NATURE STUFF." "Now to PUT IN THE

NATURE STUFF," continues the author, "was the express purpose for which

the book had been written. I had had one year's experience with 'The

Song of the Cardinal,' frankly a nature book, and from the start I

realized that I never could reach the audience I wanted with a book on

nature alone. To spend time writing a book based wholly upon human

passion and its outworking I would not. So I compromised on a book into

which I put all the nature work that came naturally within its scope,

and seasoned it with little bits of imagination and straight copy from

the lives of men and women I had known intimately, folk who lived in a

simple, common way with which I was familiar. So I said to my

publishers: 'I will write the books exactly as they take shape in my

mind. You publish them. I know they will sell enough that you will not

lose. If I do not make over six hundred dollars on a book I shall never

utter a complaint. Make up my work as I think it should be and leave it

to the people as to what kind of book they will take into their hearts

and homes.' I altered 'Freckles' slightly, but from that time on we

worked on this agreement.

"My years of nature work have not been without considerable insight

into human nature, as well," continues Mrs. Porter. "I know its

failings, its inborn tendencies, its weaknesses, its failures, its

depth of crime; and the people who feel called upon to spend their time

analyzing, digging into, and uncovering these sources of depravity have

that privilege, more's the pity! If I had my way about it, this is a

privilege no one could have in books intended for indiscriminate

circulation. I stand squarely for book censorship, and I firmly believe

that with a few more years of such books, as half a dozen I could

mention, public opinion will demand this very thing. My life has been

fortunate in one glad way: I have lived mostly in the country and

worked in the woods. For every bad man and woman I have ever known, I

have met, lived with, and am intimately acquainted with an overwhelming

number of thoroughly clean and decent people who still believe in God

and cherish high ideals, and it is UPON THE LIVES OF THESE THAT I BASE

WHAT I WRITE. To contend that this does not produce a picture true to

life is idiocy. It does. It produces a picture true to ideal life; to

the best that good men and good women can do at level best.

"I care very little for the magazine or newspaper critics who proclaim

that there is no such thing as a moral man, and that my pictures of

life are sentimental and idealized. They are! And I glory in them! They

are straight, living pictures from the lives of men and women of

morals, honour, and loving kindness. They form 'idealized pictures of

life' because they are copies from life where it touches religion,

chastity, love, home, and hope of heaven ultimately. None of these

roads leads to publicity and the divorce court. They all end in the

shelter and seclusion of a home.

"Such a big majority of book critics and authors have begun to teach,

whether they really believe it or not, that no book is TRUE TO LIFE

unless it is true to the WORST IN LIFE, that the idea has infected even

the women."

In 1906, having seen a few of Mrs. Porter's studies of bird life, Mr.

Edward Bok telegraphed the author asking to meet him in Chicago. She

had a big portfolio of fine prints from plates for which she had gone

to the last extremity of painstaking care, and the result was an order

from Mr. Bok for a six months' series in the Ladies' Home Journal of

the author's best bird studies accompanied by descriptions of how she

secured them. This material was later put in book form under the title,

"What I Have Done with Birds," and is regarded as authoritative on the

subject of bird photography and bird life, for in truth it covers every

phase of the life of the birds described, and contains much of other

nature subjects.

By this time Mrs. Porter had made a contract with her publishers to

alternate her books. She agreed to do a nature book for love, and then,

by way of compromise, a piece of nature work spiced with enough fiction

to tempt her class of readers. In this way she hoped that they would

absorb enough of the nature work while reading the fiction to send them

afield, and at the same time keep in their minds her picture of what

she considers the only life worth living. She was still assured that

only a straight novel would "pay," but she was living, meeting all her

expenses, giving her family many luxuries, and saving a little sum for

a rainy day she foresaw on her horoscope. To be comfortably clothed and

fed, to have time and tools for her work, is all she ever has asked of

life.

Among Mrs. Porter's readers "At the Foot of the Rainbow" stands as

perhaps the author's strongest piece of fiction.

In August of 1909 two books on which the author had been working for

years culminated at the same time: a nature novel, and a straight

nature book. The novel was, in a way, a continuation of "Freckles,"

filled as usual with wood lore, but more concerned with moths than

birds. Mrs. Porter had been finding and picturing exquisite big night

flyers during several years of field work among the birds, and from

what she could have readily done with them she saw how it would be

possible for a girl rightly constituted and environed to make a living,

and a good one, at such work. So was conceived "A Girl of the

Limberlost." "This comes fairly close to my idea of a good book," she

writes. "No possible harm can be done any one in reading it. The book

can, and does, present a hundred pictures that will draw any reader in

closer touch with nature and the Almighty, my primal object in each

line I write. The human side of the book is as close a character study

as I am capable of making. I regard the character of Mrs. Comstock as

the best thought-out and the cleanest-cut study of human nature I have

so far been able to do. Perhaps the best justification of my idea of

this book came to me recently when I received an application from the

President for permission to translate it into Arabic, as the first book

to be used in an effort to introduce our methods of nature study into

the College of Cairo."

Hodder and Stoughton of London published the British edition of this

work.

At the same time that "A Girl of the Limberlost" was published there

appeared the book called "Birds of the Bible." This volume took shape

slowly. The author made a long search for each bird mentioned in the

Bible, how often, where, why; each quotation concerning it in the whole

book, every abstract reference, why made, by whom, and what it meant.

Then slowly dawned the sane and true things said of birds in the Bible

compared with the amazing statements of Aristotle, Aristophanes, Pliny,

and other writers of about the same period in pagan nations. This led

to a search for the dawn of bird history and for the very first

pictures preserved of them. On this book the author expended more work

than on any other she has ever written.

In 1911 two more books for which Mrs. Porter had gathered material for

long periods came to a conclusion on the same date: "Music of the Wild"

and "The Harvester." The latter of these was a nature novel; the other

a frank nature book, filled with all outdoors--a special study of the

sounds one hears in fields and forests, and photographic reproductions

of the musicians and their instruments.

The idea of "The Harvester" was suggested to the author by an editor

who wanted a magazine article, with human interest in it, about the

ginseng diggers in her part of the country. Mr. Porter had bought

ginseng for years for a drug store he owned; there were several people

he knew still gathering it for market, and growing it was becoming a

good business all over the country. Mrs. Porter learned from the United

States Pharmacopaeia and from various other sources that the drug was

used mostly by the Chinese, and with a wholly mistaken idea of its

properties. The strongest thing any medical work will say for ginseng

is that it is "A VERY MILD AND SOOTHING DRUG." It seems that the

Chinese buy and use it in enormous quantities, in the belief that it is

a remedy for almost every disease to which humanity is heir; that it

will prolong life, and that it is a wonderful stimulant. Ancient

medical works make this statement, laying special emphasis upon its

stimulating qualities. The drug does none of these things. Instead of

being a stimulant, it comes closer to a sedative. This investigation

set the author on the search for other herbs that now are or might be

grown as an occupation. Then came the idea of a man who should grow

these drugs professionally, and of the sick girl healed by them. "I

could have gone to work and started a drug farm myself," remarks Mrs.

Porter, "with exactly the same profit and success as the Harvester. I

wrote primarily to state that to my personal knowledge, clean, loving

men still exist in this world, and that no man is forced to endure the

grind of city life if he wills otherwise. Any one who likes, with even

such simple means as herbs he can dig from fence corners, may start a

drug farm that in a short time will yield him delightful work and

independence. I WROTE THE BOOK AS I THOUGHT IT SHOULD BE WRITTEN, TO

PROVE MY POINTS AND ESTABLISH MY CONTENTIONS. I THINK IT DID. MEN THE

GLOBE AROUND PROMPTLY WROTE ME THAT THEY ALWAYS HAD OBSERVED THE MORAL

CODE; OTHERS THAT THE SUBJECT NEVER IN ALL THEIR LIVES HAD BEEN

PRESENTED TO THEM FROM MY POINT OF VIEW, BUT NOW THAT IT HAD BEEN, THEY

WOULD CHANGE AND DO WHAT THEY COULD TO INFLUENCE ALL MEN TO DO THE

SAME."

Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton publish a British edition of "The

Harvester," there is an edition in Scandinavian, it was running

serially in a German magazine, but for a time at least the German and

French editions that were arranged will be stopped by this war, as

there was a French edition of "The Song of the Cardinal."

After a short rest, the author began putting into shape a book for

which she had been compiling material since the beginning of field

work. From the first study she made of an exquisite big night moth,

Mrs. Porter used every opportunity to secure more and representative

studies of each family in her territory, and eventually found the work

so fascinating that she began hunting cocoons and raising caterpillars

in order to secure life histories and make illustrations with fidelity

to life. "It seems," comments the author, "that scientists and

lepidopterists from the beginning have had no hesitation in describing

and using mounted moth and butterfly specimens for book text and

illustration, despite the fact that their colours fade rapidly, that

the wings are always in unnatural positions, and the bodies shrivelled.

I would quite as soon accept the mummy of any particular member of the

Rameses family as a fair representation of the living man, as a mounted

moth for a live one."

When she failed to secure the moth she wanted in a living and perfect

specimen for her studies, the author set out to raise one, making

photographic studies from the eggs through the entire life process.

There was one June during which she scarcely slept for more than a few

hours of daytime the entire month. She turned her bedroom into a

hatchery, where were stored the most precious cocoons; and if she lay

down at night it was with those she thought would produce moths before

morning on her pillow, where she could not fail to hear them emerging.

At the first sound she would be up with notebook in hand, and by dawn,

busy with cameras. Then she would be forced to hurry to the darkroom

and develop her plates in order to be sure that she had a perfect

likeness, before releasing the specimen, for she did release all she

produced except one pair of each kind, never having sold a moth,

personally. Often where the markings were wonderful and complicated, as

soon as the wings were fully developed Mrs. Porter copied the living

specimen in water colours for her illustrations, frequently making

several copies in order to be sure that she laid on the colour enough

BRIGHTER than her subject so that when it died it would be exactly the

same shade.

"Never in all my life," writes the author, "have I had such exquisite

joy in work as I had in painting the illustrations for this volume of

'Moths of the Limberlost.' Colour work had advanced to such a stage

that I knew from the beautiful reproductions in Arthur Rackham's

'Rheingold and Valkyrie' and several other books on the market, that

time so spent would not be lost. Mr. Doubleday had assured me

personally that I might count on exact reproduction, and such details

of type and paper as I chose to select. I used the easel made for me

when a girl, under the supervision of my father, and I threw my whole

heart into the work of copying each line and delicate shading on those

wonderful wings, 'all diamonded with panes of quaint device,

innumerable stains and splendid dyes,' as one poet describes them.

There were times, when in working a mist of colour over another

background, I cut a brush down to three hairs. Some of these

illustrations I sent back six and seven times, to be worked over before

the illustration plates were exact duplicates of the originals, and my

heart ached for the engravers, who must have had Job-like patience; but

it did not ache enough to stop me until I felt the reproduction exact.

This book tells its own story of long and patient waiting for a

specimen, of watching, of disappointments, and triumphs. I love it

especially among my book children because it represents my highest

ideals in the making of a nature book, and I can take any skeptic

afield and prove the truth of the natural history it contains."

In August of 1913 the author's novel "Laddie" was published in New

York, London, Sydney and Toronto simultaneously. This book contains the

same mixture of romance and nature interest as the others, and is

modelled on the same plan of introducing nature objects peculiar to the

location, and characters, many of whom are from life, typical of the

locality at a given period. The first thing many critics said of it was

that "no such people ever existed, and no such life was ever lived." In

reply to this the author said: "Of a truth, the home I described in

this book I knew to the last grain of wood in the doors, and I painted,

it with absolute accuracy; and many of the people I described I knew

more intimately than I ever have known any others. TAKEN AS A WHOLE IT

REPRESENTS A PERFECTLY FAITHFUL PICTURE OF HOME LIFE, IN A FAMILY WHO

WERE REARED AND EDUCATED EXACTLY AS THIS BOOK INDICATES. There was such

a man as Laddie, and he was as much bigger and better than my

description of him as a real thing is always better than its

presentment. The only difference, barring the nature work, between my

books and those of many other writers, is that I prefer to describe and

to perpetuate the BEST I have known in life; whereas many authors seem

to feel that they have no hope of achieving a high literary standing

unless they delve in and reproduce the WORST.

"To deny that wrong and pitiful things exist in life is folly, but to

believe that these things are made better by promiscuous discussion at

the hands of writers who FAIL TO PROVE BY THEIR BOOKS that their

viewpoint is either right, clean, or helpful, is close to insanity. If

there is to be any error on either side in a book, then God knows it is

far better that it should be upon the side of pure sentiment and high

ideals than upon that of a too loose discussion of subjects which often

open to a large part of the world their first knowledge of such forms

of sin, profligate expenditure, and waste of life's best opportunities.

There is one great beauty in idealized romance: reading it can make no

one worse than he is, while it may help thousands to a cleaner life and

higher inspiration than they ever before have known."

Mrs. Porter has written ten books, and it is not out of place here to

express her attitude toward them. Each was written, she says, from her

heart's best impulses. They are as clean and helpful as she knew how to

make them, as beautiful and interesting. She has never spared herself

in the least degree, mind or body, when it came to giving her best, and

she has never considered money in relation to what she was writing.

During the hard work and exposure of those early years, during rainy

days and many nights in the darkroom, she went straight ahead with

field work, sending around the globe for books and delving to secure

material for such books as "Birds of the Bible," "Music of the Wild,"

and "Moths of the Limberlost." Every day devoted to such work was

"commercially" lost, as publishers did not fail to tell her. But that

was the work she could do, and do with exceeding joy. She could do it

better pictorially, on account of her lifelong knowledge of living

things afield, than any other woman had as yet had the strength and

nerve to do it. It was work in which she gloried, and she persisted.

"Had I been working for money," comments the author, "not one of these

nature books ever would have been written, or an illustration made."

When the public had discovered her and given generous approval to "A

Girl of the Limberlost," when "The Harvester" had established a new

record, that would have been the time for the author to prove her

commercialism by dropping nature work, and plunging headlong into books

it would pay to write, and for which many publishers were offering

alluring sums. Mrs. Porter's answer was the issuing of such books as

"Music of the Wild" and "Moths of the Limberlost." No argument is

necessary. Mr. Edward Shuman, formerly critic of the Chicago

Record-Herald, was impressed by this method of work and pointed it out

in a review. It appealed to Mr. Shuman, when "Moths of the Limberlost"

came in for review, following the tremendous success of "The

Harvester," that had the author been working for money, she could have

written half a dozen more "Harvesters" while putting seven years of

field work, on a scientific subject, into a personally illustrated work.

In an interesting passage dealing with her books, Mrs. Porter writes:

"I have done three times the work on my books of fiction that I see

other writers putting into a novel, in order to make all natural

history allusions accurate and to write them in such fashion that they

will meet with the commendation of high schools, colleges, and

universities using what I write as text books, and for the homes that

place them in their libraries. I am perfectly willing to let time and

the hearts of the people set my work in its ultimate place. I have no

delusions concerning it.

"To my way of thinking and working the greatest service a piece of

fiction can do any reader is to leave him with a higher ideal of life

than he had when he began. If in one small degree it shows him where he

can be a gentler, saner, cleaner, kindlier man, it is a wonder-working

book. If it opens his eyes to one beauty in nature he never saw for

himself, and leads him one step toward the God of the Universe, it is a

beneficial book, for one step into the miracles of nature leads to that

long walk, the glories of which so strengthen even a boy who thinks he

is dying, that he faces his struggle like a gladiator."

During the past ten years thousands of people have sent the author word

that through her books they have been led afield and to their first

realization of the beauties of nature her mail brings an average of ten

such letters a day, mostly from students, teachers, and professional

people of our largest cities. It can probably be said in all truth of

her nature books and nature novels, that in the past ten years they

have sent more people afield than all the scientific writings of the

same period. That is a big statement, but it is very likely pretty

close to the truth. Mrs. Porter has been asked by two London and one

Edinburgh publishers for the privilege of bringing out complete sets of

her nature books, but as yet she has not felt ready to do this.

In bringing this sketch of Gene Stratton-Porter to a close it will be

interesting to quote the author's own words describing the Limberlost

Swamp, its gradual disappearance under the encroachments of business,

and her removal to a new field even richer in natural beauties. She

says: "In the beginning of the end a great swamp region lay in

northeastern Indiana. Its head was in what is now Noble and DeKalb

counties; its body in Allen and Wells, and its feet in southern Adams

and northern Jay The Limberlost lies at the foot and was, when I

settled near it, EXACTLY AS DESCRIBED IN MY BOOKS. The process of

dismantling it was told in, Freckles, to start with, carried on in 'A

Girl of the Limberlost,' and finished in 'Moths of the Limberlost.' Now

it has so completely fallen prey to commercialism through the

devastation of lumbermen, oilmen, and farmers, that I have been forced

to move my working territory and build a new cabin about seventy miles

north, at the head of the swamp in Noble county, where there are many

lakes, miles of unbroken marsh, and a far greater wealth of plant and

animal life than existed during my time in the southern part. At the

north end every bird that frequents the Central States is to be found.

Here grow in profusion many orchids, fringed gentians, cardinal

flowers, turtle heads, starry campions, purple gerardias, and grass of

Parnassus. In one season I have located here almost every flower named

in the botanies as native to these regions and several that I can find

in no book in my library.

"But this change of territory involves the purchase of fifteen acres of

forest and orchard land, on a lake shore in marsh country. It means the

building of a permanent, all-year-round home, which will provide the

comforts of life for my family and furnish a workshop consisting of a

library, a photographic darkroom and negative closet, and a printing

room for me. I could live in such a home as I could provide on the

income from my nature work alone; but when my working grounds were

cleared, drained and ploughed up, literally wiped from the face of the

earth, I never could have moved to new country had it not been for the

earnings of the novels, which I now spend, and always have spent, in

great part UPON MY NATURE WORK. Based on this plan of work and life I

have written ten books, and 'please God I live so long,' I shall write

ten more. Possibly every one of them will be located in northern

Indiana. Each one will be filled with all the field and woods

legitimately falling to its location and peopled with the best men and

women I have known."

Chapter 1

THE RAT-CATCHERS OF THE WABASH

"Hey, you swate-scented little heart-warmer!" cried Jimmy Malone, as he

lifted his tenth trap, weighted with a struggling muskrat, from the

Wabash. "Varmint you may be to all the rist of creation, but you mane a

night at Casey's to me."

Jimmy whistled softly as he reset the trap. For the moment he forgot

that he was five miles from home, that it was a mile farther to the end

of his line at the lower curve of Horseshoe Bend, that his feet and

fingers were almost freezing, and that every rat of the ten now in the

bag on his back had made him thirstier. He shivered as the cold wind

sweeping the curves of the river struck him; but when an unusually

heavy gust dropped the ice and snow from a branch above him on the back

of his head, he laughed, as he ducked and cried: "Kape your snowballing

till the Fourth of July, will you!"

"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!" remarked a tiny gray bird on the tree above him.

Jimmy glanced up. "Chickie, Chickie, Chickie," he said. "I can't till

by your dress whether you are a hin or a rooster. But I can till by

your employmint that you are working for grub. Have to hustle lively

for every worm you find, don't you, Chickie? Now me, I'm hustlin'

lively for a drink, and I be domn if it seems nicessary with a whole

river of drinkin' stuff flowin' right under me feet. But the old Wabash

ain't runnin "wine and milk and honey" not by the jug-full. It seems to

be compounded of aquil parts of mud, crude ile, and rain water. If

'twas only runnin' Melwood, be gorry, Chickie, you'd see a mermaid

named Jimmy Malone sittin' on the Kingfisher Stump, combin' its auburn

hair with a breeze, and scoopin' whiskey down its gullet with its tail

fin. No, hold on, Chickie, you wouldn't either. I'm too flat-chisted

for a mermaid, and I'd have no time to lave off gurglin' for the

hair-combin' act, which, Chickie, to me notion is as issential to a

mermaid as the curves. I'd be a sucker, the biggest sucker in the

Gar-hole, Chickie bird. I'd be an all-day sucker, be gobs; yis, and an

all-night sucker, too. Come to think of it, Chickie, be domn if I'd be

a sucker at all. Look at the mouths of thim! Puckered up with a

drawstring! Oh, Hell on the Wabash, Chickie, think of Jimmy Malone

lyin' at the bottom of a river flowin' with Melwood, and a

puckerin'-string mouth! Wouldn't that break the heart of you? I know

what I'd be. I'd be the Black Bass of Horseshoe Bend, Chickie, and I'd

locate just below the shoals headin' up stream, and I'd hold me mouth

wide open till I paralyzed me jaws so I couldn't shut thim. I'd just

let the pure stuff wash over me gills constant, world without end.

Good-by, Chickie. Hope you got your grub, and pretty soon I'll have

enough drink to make me feel like I was the Bass for one night, anyway."

Jimmy hurried to his next trap, which was empty, but the one after that

contained a rat, and there were footprints in the snow. "That's where

the porrage-heart of the Scotchman comes in," said Jimmy, as he held up

the rat by one foot, and gave it a sharp rap over the head with the

trap to make sure it was dead. "Dannie could no more hear a rat fast in

one of me traps and not come over and put it out of its misery, than he

could dance a hornpipe. And him only sicond hand from hornpipe land,

too! But his feet's like lead. Poor Dannie! He gets just about half the

rats I do. He niver did have luck."

Jimmy's gay face clouded for an instant. The twinkle faded from his

eyes, and a look of unrest swept into them. He muttered something, and

catching up his bag, shoved in the rat. As he reset the trap, a big

crow dropped from branch to branch on a sycamore above him, and his

back scarcely was turned before it alighted on the ice, and ravenously

picked at three drops of blood purpling there.

Away down the ice-sheeted river led Dannie's trail, showing plainly

across the snow blanket. The wind raved through the trees, and around

the curves of the river. The dark earth of the banks peeping from under

overhanging ice and snow, looked like the entrance to deep mysterious

caves. Jimmy's superstitious soul readily peopled them with goblins and

devils. He shuddered, and began to talk aloud to cheer himself. "Elivin

muskrat skins, times fifteen cints apiece, one dollar sixty-five. That

will buy more than I can hold. Hagginy! Won't I be takin' one long fine

gurgle of the pure stuff! And there's the boys! I might do the grand

for once. One on me for the house! And I might pay something on my back

score, but first I'll drink till I swell like a poisoned pup. And I

ought to get Mary that milk pail she's been kickin' for this last

month. Women and cows are always kickin'! If the blarsted cow hadn't

kicked a hole in the pail, there'd be no need of Mary kicking for a new

one. But dough IS dubious soldering. Mary says it's bad enough on the

dish pan, but it positively ain't hilthy about the milk pail, and she

is right. We ought to have a new pail. I guess I'll get it first, and

fill up on what's left. One for a quarter will do. And I've several

traps yet, I may get a few more rats."

The virtuous resolve to buy a milk pail before he quenched the thirst

which burned him, so elated Jimmy with good opinion of himself that he

began whistling gayly as he strode toward his next trap. And by that

token, Dannie Macnoun, resetting an empty trap a quarter of a mile

below, knew that Jimmy was coming, and that as usual luck was with him.

Catching his blood and water dripping bag, Dannie dodged a rotten

branch that came crashing down under the weight of its icy load, and

stepping out on the river, he pulled on his patched wool-lined mittens

as he waited for Jimmy.

"How many, Dannie?" called Jimmy from afar.

"Seven," answered Dannie. "What for ye?"

"Elivin," replied Jimmy, with a bit of unconscious swagger. "I am

havin' poor luck to-day."

"How mony wad satisfy ye?" asked Dannie sarcastically.

"Ain't got time to figure that," answered Jimmy, working in a double

shuffle as he walked. "Thrash around a little, Dannie. It will warm you

up."

"I am no cauld," answered Dannie.

"No cauld!" imitated Jimmy. "No cauld! Come to observe you closer, I do

detect symptoms of sunstroke in the ridness of your face, and the

whiteness about your mouth; but the frost on your neck scarf, and the

icicles fistooned around the tail of your coat, tell a different story.

"Dannie, you remind me of the baptizin' of Pete Cox last winter. Pete's

nothin' but skin and bone, and he niver had a square meal in his life

to warm him. It took pushin' and pullin' to get him in the water, and a

scum froze over while he was under. Pete came up shakin' like the

feeder on a thrashin' machine, and whin he could spake at all, 'Bless

Jasus,' says he, 'I'm jist as wa-wa-warm as I wa-wa-want to be.' So are

you, Dannie, but there's a difference in how warm folks want to be. For

meself, now, I could aisily bear a little more hate."

"It's honest, I'm no cauld," insisted Dannie; and he might have added

that if Jimmy would not fill his system with Casey's poisons, that

degree of cold would not chill and pinch him either. But being Dannie,

he neither thought nor said it. '"Why, I'm frozen to me sowl!" cried

Jimmy, as he changed the rat bag to his other hand, and beat the empty

one against his leg. "Say, Dannie, where do you think the Kingfisher is

wintering?"

"And the Black Bass," answered Dannie. "Where do ye suppose the Black

Bass is noo?"

"Strange you should mintion the Black Bass," said Jimmy. "I was just

havin' a little talk about him with a frind of mine named Chickie-dom,

no, Chickie-dee, who works a grub stake back there. The Bass might be

lyin' in the river bed right under our feet. Don't you remimber the

time whin I put on three big cut-worms, and skittered thim beyond the

log that lays across here, and he lept from the water till we both saw

him the best we ever did, and nothin' but my old rotten line ever saved

him? Or he might be where it slumps off just below the Kingfisher

stump. But I know where he is all right. He's down in the Gar-hole, and

he'll come back here spawning time, and chase minnows when the

Kingfisher comes home. But, Dannie, where the nation do you suppose the

Kingfisher is?"

"No' so far away as ye might think," replied Dannie. "Doc Hues told me

that coming on the train frae Indianapolis on the fifteenth of

December, he saw one fly across a little pond juist below Winchester. I

believe they go south slowly, as the cold drives them, and stop near as

they can find guid fishing. Dinna that stump look lonely wi'out him?"

"And sound lonely without the Bass slashing around! I am going to have

that Bass this summer if I don't do a thing but fish!" vowed Jimmy.

"I'll surely have a try at him," answered Dannie, with a twinkle in his

gray eyes. "We've caught most everything else in the Wabash, and our

reputation fra taking guid fish is ahead of any one on the river,

except the Kingfisher. Why the Diel dinna one of us haul out that Bass?"

"Ain't I just told you that I am going to hook him this summer?"

shivered Jimmy.

"Dinna ye hear me mention that I intended to take a try at him mysel'?"

questioned Dannie. "Have ye forgotten that I know how to fish?"

"'Nough breeze to-day without starting a Highlander," interposed Jimmy

hastily. "I believe I hear a rat in my next trap. That will make me

twilve, and it's good and glad of it I am for I've to walk to town when

my line is reset. There's something Mary wants."

"If Mary wants ye to go to town, why dinna ye leave me to finish your

traps, and start now?" asked Dannie. "It's getting dark, and if ye are

so late ye canna see the drifts, ye never can cut across the fields;

fra the snow is piled waist high, and it's a mile farther by the road."

"I got to skin my rats first, or I'll be havin' to ask credit again,"

replied Jimmy.

"That's easy," answered Dannie. "Turn your rats over to me richt noo.

I'll give ye market price fra them in cash."

"But the skinnin' of them," objected Jimmy for decency sake, though his

eyes were beginning to shine and his fingers to tremble.

"Never ye mind about that," retorted Dannie. "I like to take my time to

it, and fix them up nice. Elivin, did ye say?"

"Elivin," answered Jimmy, breaking into a jig, supposedly to keep his

feet warm, in reality because he could not stand quietly while Dannie

pulled off his mittens, got out and unstrapped his wallet, and

carefully counted out the money. "Is that all ye need?" he asked.

For an instant Jimmy hesitated. Missing a chance to get even a few

cents more meant a little shorter time at Casey's. "That's enough, I

think," he said. "I wish I'd staid out of matrimony, and then maybe I

could iver have a cint of me own. You ought to be glad you haven't a

woman to consume ivery penny you earn before it reaches your pockets,

Dannie Micnoun."

"I hae never seen Mary consume much but calico and food," Dannie said

dryly.

"Oh, it ain't so much what a woman really spinds," said Jimmy,

peevishly, as he shoved the money into his pocket, and pulled on his

mittens. "It's what you know she would spind if she had the chance."

"I dinna think ye'll break up on that," laughed Dannie.

And that was what Jimmy wanted. So long as he could set Dannie

laughing, he could mold him.

"No, but I'll break down," lamented Jimmy in sore self-pity, as he

remembered the quarter sacred to the purchase of the milk pail.

"Ye go on, and hurry," urged Dannie. "If ye dinna start home by seven,

I'll be combing the drifts fra ye before morning."

"Anything I can do for you?" asked Jimmy, tightening his old red neck

scarf.

"Yes," answered Dannie. "Do your errand and start straight home, your

teeth are chattering noo. A little more exposure, and the rheumatism

will be grinding ye again. Ye will hurry, Jimmy?"

"Sure!" cried Jimmy, ducking under a snow slide, and breaking into a

whistle as he turned toward the road.

Dannie's gaze followed Jimmy's retreating figure until he climbed the

bank, and was lost in the woods, and the light in his eyes was the

light of love. He glanced at the sky, and hurried down the river. First

across to Jimmy's side to gather his rats and reset his traps, then to

his own. But luck seemed to have turned, for all the rest of Dannie's

were full, and all of Jimmy's were empty. But as he was gone, it was

not necessary for Dannie to slip across and fill them, as was his

custom when they worked together. He would divide the rats at skinning

time, so that Jimmy would have just twice as many as he, because Jimmy

had a wife to support. The last trap of the line lay a little below the

curve of Horseshoe Bend, and there Dannie twisted the tops of the bags

together, climbed the bank, and struck across Rainbow Bottom. He

settled his load to his shoulders, and glanced ahead to choose the

shortest route. He stopped suddenly with a quick intake of breath.

"God!" he cried reverently. "Hoo beautifu' are Thy works."

The ice-covered Wabash circled Rainbow Bottom like a broad white frame,

and inside it was a perfect picture wrought in crystal white and snow

shadows. The blanket on the earth lay smoothly in even places, rose

with knolls, fell with valleys, curved over prostrate logs, heaped in

mounds where bushes grew thickly, and piled high in drifts where the

wind blew free. In the shelter of the bottom the wind had not stripped

the trees of their loads as it had those along the river. The willows,

maples, and soft woods bent almost to earth with their shining burden;

but the stout, stiffly upstanding trees, the oaks, elms, and

cottonwoods defied the elements to bow their proud heads. While the

three mighty trunks of the great sycamore in the middle looked white as

the snow, and dwarfed its companions as it never had in summer; its

wide-spreading branches were sharply cut against the blue background,

and they tossed their frosted balls in the face of Heaven. The giant of

Rainbow Bottom might be broken, but it never would bend. Every

clambering vine, every weed and dried leaf wore a coat of lace-webbed

frostwork. The wind swept a mist of tiny crystals through the air, and

from the shelter of the deep woods across the river a Cardinal whistled

gayly.

The bird of Good Cheer, whistling no doubt on an empty crop, made

Dannie think of Jimmy, and his unfailing fountain of mirth. Dear Jimmy!

Would he ever take life seriously? How good he was to tramp to town and

back after five miles on the ice. He thought of Mary with almost a

touch of impatience. What did the woman want that was so necessary as

to send a man to town after a day on the ice? Jimmy would be dog tired

when he got home. Dannie decided to hurry, and do the feeding and get

in the wood before he began to skin the rats.

He found walking uncertain. He plunged into unsuspected hollows, and

waded drifts, so that he was panting when he reached the lane. From

there he caught the gray curl of smoke against the sky from one of two

log cabins side by side at the top of the embankment, and he almost ran

toward them. Mary might think they were late at the traps, and be out

doing the feeding, and it would be cold for a woman.

On reaching his own door, he dropped the rat bags inside, and then

hurried to the yard of the other cabin. He gathered a big load of wood

in his arms, and stamping the snow from his feet, called "Open!" at the

door. Dannie stepped inside and filled the empty box. With smiling eyes

he turned to Mary, as he brushed the snow and moss from his sleeves.

"Nothing but luck to-day," he said. "Jimmy took elivin fine skins frae

his traps before he started to town, and I got five more that are his,

and I hae eight o' my own."

Mary looked such a dream to Dannie, standing there all pink and warm

and tidy in her fresh blue dress, that he blinked and smiled, half

bewildered.

"What did Jimmy go to town for?" she asked.

"Whatever it was ye wanted," answered Dannie.

"What was it I wanted?" persisted Mary.

"He dinna tell me," replied Dannie, and the smile wavered.

"Me, either," said Mary, and she stooped and picked up her sewing.

Dannie went out and gently closed the door. He stood for a second on

the step, forcing himself to take an inventory of the work. There were

the chickens to feed, and the cows to milk, feed, and water. Both the

teams must be fed and bedded, a fire in his own house made, and two

dozen rats skinned, and the skins put to stretch and cure. And at the

end of it all, instead of a bed and rest, there was every probability

that he must drive to town after Jimmy; for Jimmy could get helpless

enough to freeze in a drift on a dollar sixty-five.

"Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy!" muttered Dannie. "I wish ye wadna." And he was not

thinking of himself, but of the eyes of the woman inside.

So Dannie did all the work, and cooked his supper, because he never ate

in Jimmy's cabin when Jimmy was not there. Then he skinned rats, and

watched the clock, because if Jimmy did not come by eleven, it meant he

must drive to town and bring him home. No wonder Jimmy chilled at the

trapping when he kept his blood on fire with whiskey. At half-past ten,

Dannie, with scarcely half the rats finished, went out into the storm

and hitched to the single buggy. Then he tapped at Mary Malone's door,

quite softly, so that he would not disturb her if she had gone to bed.

She was not sleeping, however, and the loneliness of her slight figure,

as she stood with the lighted room behind her, struck Dannie forcibly,

so that his voice trembled with pity as he said: "Mary, I've run out o'

my curing compound juist in the midst of skinning the finest bunch o'

rats we've taken frae the traps this winter. I am going to drive to

town fra some more before the stores close, and we will be back in less

than an hour. I thought I'd tell ye, so if ye wanted me ye wad know why

I dinna answer. Ye winna be afraid, will ye?"

"No," replied Mary, "I won't be afraid."

"Bolt the doors, and pile on plenty of wood to keep ye warm," said

Dannie as he turned away.

Just for a minute Mary stared out into the storm. Then a gust of wind

nearly swept her from her feet, and she pushed the door shut, and slid

the heavy bolt into place. For a little while she leaned and listened

to the storm outside. She was a clean, neat, beautiful Irish woman. Her

eyes were wide and blue, her cheeks pink, and her hair black and softly

curling about her face and neck. The room in which she stood was neat

as its keeper. The walls were whitewashed, and covered with prints,

pictures, and some small tanned skins. Dried grasses and flowers filled

the vases on the mantle. The floor was neatly carpeted with a striped

rag carpet, and in the big open fireplace a wood fire roared. In an

opposite corner stood a modern cooking stove, the pipe passing through

a hole in the wall, and a door led into a sleeping room beyond.

As her eyes swept the room they rested finally on a framed lithograph

of the Virgin, with the Infant in her arms. Slowly Mary advanced, her

gaze fast on the serene pictured face of the mother clasping her child.

Before it she stood staring. Suddenly her breast began to heave, and

the big tears brimmed from her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

"Since you look so wise, why don't you tell me why?" she demanded. "Oh,

if you have any mercy, tell me why!"

Then before the steady look in the calm eyes, she hastily made the sign

of the cross, and slipping to the floor, she laid her head on a chair,

and sobbed aloud.