When the salt has left the ocean,
And the moon forgets the sea,
When with gay and festive motion
Ox shall waltz with bee,
When we wash our face in cinders,
And bake our meat on ice,
When tender mercy hinders
The cat from eating the mice,
When gray heads grace young shoulders
And icicles form in June,
When Quakers all turn soldiers,
And bull frogs sing in tune,
Then, and not till then, my treasure,
My darling, tender and true,
My heart shall claim the leisure
To think no more of you.
* * * * *
The other morning, lured by the splendor of a golden day, I started to
walk to town, a distance of twenty-four miles. But after the tenth mile
the truth was so forcibly and increasingly borne in upon me that "all
flesh is grass," and that the strength of a man (or woman either) "lieth
not in his heels," that I postponed the finish until another day. But
who shall take from me the glory of the start? Shall anybody forget that
a sunrise was fair and full of promise because the noon was clouded and
the evening declined into rain? Although my twenty-five-mile walk ended
at the tenth in a rocking-chair, yet those ten miles were beautiful and
full of glory.
"It will certainly kill you!" wailed the martyr as I bade her good-bye.
"Oh, will it kill her?" echoed the poor little Captain, and lifted up
her voice in lamentation as I vanished from her sight and struck for the
bluff road. The morning was so beautiful that I could imagine the world
nothing but a big bunch of tulips standing within a crystal vase in the
sun. The maples glistened like gold, and were flecked with ruby drops
that burned and glowed like spilled wine. The oaks were russet brown and
dusky purple, cleft here and there with vivid green, like glimpses of a
windy sea through shadowed hills. The leaves that had fallen to the
earth were musical underneath the foot, and gave forth a faint fragrance
that made the air as sweet as any bakeshop. The odor of fallen leaves
and wood shrubs sinking into decay is not like any other fragrance so
much as the scent of well-baked bread, browned and finished in summer's
ruddy heat.
The lake--but what can I say to fitly describe that translucent
sapphire, over which a mist hung like a gossamer web above a blue-bell,
or the haze of slumber upon a drowsy eye? As I stood upon the bluff,
before the road struck landward through the woods, I could but extend my
arm to the glorious expanse of waters and bless the Lord with all my
soul for so lovely a place to tarry in between times. If this world is
only a stopping-place, a country through which we march to heaven, as
Sherman marched overland to the sea, then thank God for so glorious a
prelude to eternity; and what shall the after harmonies be when the
broken sounds of idly-touched flutes and harps are so divine?
After leaving Ravinia I proceeded to get lost in the woods. A very
small boy and a very large dog were standing by a fence. "Does that dog
bite?" I asked. "Yes'm," promptly replied the sweet and candid child. So
I climbed a fence and struck for the timber. I soon found that all
knowledge of the points of the compass had failed me. "If I am going
east," I mused, "I shall soon strike the lake; if west, the track; south
will eventually bring me to the Chicago River; but a northerly direction
will restore me to the sleuth-hound. I will say my prayers and endeavor
to keep to the south." The way grew denser. My hat gave me some trouble,
as it insisted upon hanging itself to every tree in the wilderness. The
twigs twitched the hair-pins from my hair and poked themselves into my
eyes. A few corpulent bugs toyed with my ankles and a large caterpillar
passed the blockade of my collar-button and basked in the warmth of my
neck. I nearly stepped on a snake and was confronted by a toad that
froze me with a glance of its basilisk eye. So I changed my course and
suddenly entered a little woodland graveyard--a handful of neglected
mounds of earth and silence. No tombstones marked the graves. A
rudely-constructed cross of wood, gray with lichens, alone told of
consecrated ground. There, away off from the road in the silence of the
woods, a few tired hearts were taking their rest. Silently I stood a
moment, then stole away and left the place to its hush of lonely peace.
What right had I, with my frets and feathers, my twig-punctured
eye-balls and my toad-perturbed nerves, to bring an unquiet presence
within this abode of silence and of rest? I sat down on a fence-rail a
moment while, like Miss Riderhood, I deftly twisted up my back hair and
mused briefly. When the time comes, oh, intensely alive and happy Amber,
for your feet to halt in the march, ask to be buried in the woods, where
your grave will be forgotten and the constant years with falling leaves
and driving snows may have a good chance to obliterate the earthly
record of your misspent years.
"Sooner or later the shadows shall creep
Over my rest in the woods so deep;
Sooner or later--"
But enough of this, my dear. I did not intend to incorporate a whole
cemetery, an obituary discourse, and "lines to the departed" in my
"Glints." After leaving the little graveyard I allowed my instincts to
carry me in a new direction, and soon a rustling among the dead leaves,
and the sound of hushed breathing, convinced me that I was approaching a
living presence. I felt for my revolver. It was there, but unloaded. (I
would sooner walk arm in arm with death than carry loaded firearms.) I
advanced bravely and became speedily aware of a score or so of large and
startled eyes, all fixed upon me. A half-score of woolly heads were
lifted, and a flock of sheep stood ready to take instant flight if I
showed sign of battle. "My dear young friends," said I, "it is a relief
to meet you, and I give you good morrow. I fully expected to encounter a
band of cutthroat tramps who should toss pennies for my heart's blood.
The blessings of a rescued woman rest upon your crinkly coats, my
beauties." A half-hour's walk through the woods brought me to a clearing
where a flock of bluebirds were holding council together among the
falling leaves. They seemed inclined to start southward, but tarried for
one last frolic. How beautiful they were as they flitted in and out
among the golden underbrush no eye but mine shall ever know. Bluebirds
have always been associated with thoughts of spring and apple-blossoms
heretofore. I could hardly believe my senses to find them here amid the
late and falling leaves. For a while I loitered in their midst and
wished for a fairy to change me into one of their winged company, that I
might forget care and find no need of revolvers; but time, as sternly
announced by my exquisite Waterbury, admitted of no delay, so I hied me
onward. At this point in my walk I approached a broken gate and a
stretch of shockingly muddy road. The vanity of confidence in any
strength that emanates alone from the "heels of a man" was by this time
beginning to make itself felt. I longed to sit down in the miry way and
go to sleep. A child could have played with me despite my revolver, and
a day-old lamb have gained the victory in a personal encounter. At this
moment, while I lingered, picking my way daintily from tuft to tuft of
the swamp, I was confronted by a tall, gaunt woman. Of course you don't
believe this; it reads too much like a dime novel. You think I am
painting my picture in lurid tints for public exhibition, but in spite
of your incredulity I repeat that I was confronted by a tall, gaunt
woman, who appeared as suddenly as though invoked by an evil spell from
the mud. The woman was shabbily dressed and wore an old-fashioned scoop
bonnet. She had a bundle on her arm, and was dragging by the hair of the
head, as it were, an indescribable umbrella. My voice sank out of sight,
like a stone in the sea, and my feet grew too heavy to lift. I stared in
silence. "Is your name Maria Hopkins?" asked the woman.
"Indeed it is," I replied, prepared to get down on my knees and swear to
the truth of what I said, if need be. "I thought so," said my companion;
"let us pray." But I didn't stop for prayers. Convinced that my time had
come, and that I was in the presence of a lunatic, I fell over the fence
and ran. When I was out of breath I looked over my shoulder, but the
woman was nowhere in sight. To pursue my walk seemed unnecessary,
especially as I was nearing the house of a friend, so summoning what
strength was left me I toddled onward, completing my tenth mile in five
hours from the starting. After my sympathizing friend had emptied her
camphor bottle upon me I asked her if she knew a party of the name of
Hopkins anywhere in town, and if there was any resemblance between such
a person and myself. I saw she thought I was delirious, and no
explanation has ever dispelled that belief. Some day I shall complete
the walk and write up the finish.
* * * * *
Said some one to me the other day: "Amber, you have lots of good friends
among the girls." "Good," said I; "then I am all right." Anybody who
gains the friendly approval of the right sort of girls has a passport
right through to glory! I mean it. There is nothing on earth I love
better than a good, sweet girl. I would rather watch a crowd of them any
day than all the pictures Fra Angelica ever painted of saints in
paradise. But there are girls and girls. There is as much difference
between them as there is between griddle cakes made with yeast and
griddle cakes in which the careless cook forgot to put the leaven. Shall
I tell you the kind of girl I especially adore? Well, first of all, let
us take the working girl. She is not a "lady" in the acceptance of the
term by this latter day's hybrid democracy. She is just a blithe,
cheery, sweet-tempered young woman. She may have a father rich enough to
support her at home, but for all that she is a working girl. She is
never idle. She is studying or sewing or helping about the home part of
the day. She is romping or playing or swinging out of doors the other
part. She is never frowsy nor untidy nor lazy. She is never rude nor
slangy nor bold. And yet she is always full of fun and ready for frolic.
She does not depend upon a servant to do what she can do for herself.
She is considerate to all who serve her. She is reverent to the old and
thoughtful of the feeble. She never criticises when criticism can wound,
and she is ready with a helpful, loving word for every one. Sometimes
she has no father, or her parents are too poor to support her. Then she
goes out and earns her living by whatever her hands find to do. She
clerks in a store, or she counts out change at a cashier's desk, or she
teaches school, or she clicks a typewriter, or rather a telegrapher's
key, but always and everywhere she is modest and willing and sweet,
provided she doesn't get that meddlesome little "bee" of "lady"-hood in
her bonnet. If she tries to be a lady at the expense of all that is
honest and frank in her nature, she is like a black baby crying for a
black kitten in the dark--you can't tell what she is exactly, but you
know she is mighty disagreeable. She has too much dignity to be imposed
upon, or put to open affront, but she has humility also, and purity that
differs from prudishness as a dove in the air differs from a stuffed
bird in a showcase. She is quick to apologize when she knows she is in
the wrong, yet no young queen ever carried a higher head than she can
upon justifiable occasions. She is not always imagining herself looked
down upon because she is poor. She knows full well that out of her own
heart and mouth proceed the only witnesses that can absolve or condemn
her. If she eats peanuts in public places, and talks loud, and flirts
with strange boys, and chews gum or displays a toothpick she is common,
even though she wore a four-foot placard emblazoned with the misnomer,
"lady." If she is quick to be courteous, unselfish, gentle and retiring
in speech and manner in public places, she is true gold, even though her
dress be faded and her bonnet be old. You cannot mistake any girl any
more than you can mistake the sunshine that follows the rain or the
lark that springs from the hawthorn hedge. All things that are blooming
and sweet attend her! The earth is better for her passing through it and
heaven will be fairer for her habitation therein. God bless her!
* * * * *
Some day I am going gunning. In a reform dress suit, with the right to
vote in my pocket, and a shotgun delicately poised upon my enfranchised
shoulder, I shall start forth on my "safety" and proceed to lay low for
a few victims. The first to perforate with my murderous bullet shall be
the fiend in human guise who toys with my "copy" from time to time and
makes me spell whether without an "h," or so distorts the sense of what
I write that my best friends wouldn't know me from Martin Tupper. I
shall show no mercy to him. I shall continue to shoot until he is
perforated like a yard of mosquito netting, and I shall leave a little
note pinned to the lapel of his coat saying that I have more bullets
left for his "successor in trust." If there is one thing that has
survived the buffetings of a harsh and somewhat disconcerting bout with
fate it is the knowledge that I know how to spell. But even of this the
fiend in question would deprive me. He has brought his fate upon himself
and will excuse me if I remark that I thirst for his gore.
* * * * *
Dominated by that superfluous energy which has, so far, rendered my
earthly career cyclonic, I called together a confiding band during the
height of the recent snow carnival for the purpose of a sleigh ride. The
opening up of that sleigh ride was propitious. The caravan moved due
north, bound for a destination that shall be nameless. We tried to look
upon the attention we attracted as a public ovation, but it was far more
suggestive of the way they used to accompany outlaws beyond the limits
of a mining town, or of the children of Israel chased by Pharaoh's
mocking hosts. It was cold. Our noses, in the light of a wan old moon,
looked like doorknobs. Our ears cracked to the lightest touch, like harp
strings in the wind. Patient, long-suffering "doctor!" Shall I ever
forget how, turning to him when the carnival of sport was at its height,
I murmured: "Are you enjoying yourself, dear?" And he replied, with
ghastly sarcasm: "Tumultuously, my love!" So might an arctic frigate,
ice-bound, have hailed a polar bear. Suddenly, when all seemed
progressing serenely, we came to a standstill, something like what might
be expected from a runaway horse checked by the newly patented electric
button. What was the matter? Bare ground. Now, under ordinary
circumstances, the term "bare ground" is not synonymous of disaster. But
if ever in the dispensation of providence it falls to your lot to be one
of a band of sleigh-riding imbeciles then shall those two words be to
you what snags in the channel are to seaward-hastening keels. The driver
shouted and became distinctly profane. "Would you please get out and
walk over this bad place?" said he. With such speed as our petrified
members would allow we all got out, and the women sat on a wayside
fence, while the men "heaved to" and dragged the chariot over about a
mile and a quarter of bare ground.
"Shall we make for the nearest line of street cars?" asked one of the
party, whose well-known position as Sunday-school superintendent kept
him in a state of abnormal calm. "What will become of the sleigh and the
poor, tired horses?" asked that one of the party directly responsible
for this mad jubilee.
"Oh, you women can lead the horses while we men carry the old band wagon
on our shoulders back to shelter." "It is no time for jokes," cried one,
"I am going home," and we all followed suit, to vow later, in the
shelter of our happy homes, that our future attempts at sleigh riding
should be confined to wheels and the time of roses.
* * * * *
I think I would rather lose this serviceable old right hand of mine than
have it write a word that could be construed into defense or
encouragement of loud and blatant women. The over-dressed and slangy
sisterhood who parade in public places and storm the land these latter
days will meet with nothing from Amber and her pen but wholesale
denunciation while the lamp of an insignificant life holds out to burn.
I hate them as a Quaker hates gunpowder, and I am more than half
inclined to believe that the total extermination of the stock would be
one of the supremest blessings that could be vouchsafed to man. The
tendencies toward boldness and effrontery which characterize the present
day, the unabashed speech and action and the manifest lack of
old-fashioned courtesy and the reserve that springs from gentle breeding
are evils that grow rather than diminish. A gentlewoman, a pure, correct
and lovely gentlewoman, occupies a loftier place than any throne, and
wields an influence more potent than the swing of a jeweled scepter. Yet
it is never by vulgar assumption that she enters into her kingdom. The
parrot is not a bird we prize, although its plumage is resplendent with
green and purple and gold. In the proud breast of the homely and
unpretentious thrush is hidden the heavenly song. Wherever gentle
forbearance is found, wherever patience and tenderness and love idealize
and sweeten life, there you will find woman as heaven meant she should
be--the crowned queen of hearth and home. And in saying all this I do
not wish to be understood as advancing the idea that a woman has no
wider scope than home, or that she must be all sugar, without any spice.
Next to the loud and bold-mannered woman as a specimen to be detested I
would put the meek Griselda, with less spirit than a boneless herring
and less sparkle than tepid tea. There is no charm left to femininity
when you add idiocy to a pretty woman's make-up. A fool may be very
docile, but a fool is not good company. Of the two, perhaps, if a man
were forced to choose a comrade to share a life that was to be cast on a
South Sea island, he would do better to take the "loud" type. Either
would drive him to the "cups," if such relief were to be found upon an
island of the sea. But who would not rather go to wreck in a storm than
founder in becalmed waters? Or, to bring it nearer home, who would not
rather be drowned away out in the middle of Lake Michigan in a howling
gale than in a gentle 7x9 cistern? If circumstances call a woman out
into the thickest of the old bread-and-butter fight that has been waging
ever since Eve ran afoul of the apple, it is to her credit if she rolls
up her sleeves and goes into the thickest of the scrimmage and holds her
own with the pluckiest of them all. It is no disgrace to her to be
quick to seize an opportunity and shrewd to find a point of vantage. Let
her rank with the men, and make ever so fine a name for herself in
whatever business vocation she chooses to make her own, it will not
detract one whit from her womanliness, provided she keep herself
unsullied of soul and tender of heart. The moment she lends herself to
practices that lead men to forget to touch their hats when she passes by
she becomes unsexed, and a sexless woman is worse than a pestilence, a
cyclone and a strike condensed into one vast calamity. No sensible man
will think any less of a woman if she has spirit enough to get downright
mad at injustice, insult or iniquity. I don't know, though, why we women
should always get together and compare notes as to what course of
conduct will best please the men. They don't lie awake nights to conform
their behavior to ways and manners that shall please us; but, even
putting our argument on the basis of what shall win approval from men, I
repeat that I don't believe that there are many of them who would object
to a woman knowing how to use a pistol or to her carrying one in case of
an unprotected walk, or a night spent in an unguarded home. There would
be fewer tales to tell of assaults and woful disappearances of young
women if all our girls were versed in the ethics of the revolver. Ah, my
dear, you can never get a more adorable portrait of a woman to hang upon
the walls of glorified fancy than the pen-portrait drawn by the master
hand of Robert Browning when he wrote of beautiful Evelyn Hope: "God
made her of spirit, fire and dew." There is the swiftest and most
splendid stroke of the artist's brush ever given to literature. And yet
half the world would substitute "putty" for "spirit," "feathers" for
"fire" and "dough" for "dew."
* * * * *
The only way to rid the world of bubble-marriages--marriages that turn
out emptiness with one drop of water as the residuum, and that drop a
tear--is to educate our girls and boys to something higher than playing
with pipes and soapy water. Give them something more earnest to do, and
see that they do it. Compel men and women to choose their life
companions with at least a tithe of the solemnity they bring to the
selection of a carriage horse or a ribbon. Legislate laws against early
marriages. "I can't tolerate children," said a little idiot to me the
other day, "but I adore dogs!" And yet that girl had an engagement ring
on her finger. There should be a special seclusion for such girls until
they develop some instinct of womanliness, and they should no more be
allowed to marry than a Choctaw chief should be allowed to take charge
of a kindergarten. You nor I can hope to turn a bubble into substance
after it is once blown.
* * * * *
Last week I moved. At least I tried to, but I haven't fully accomplished
the feat yet. If it costs one woman a desk and an umbrella, the pangs of
a seven-horse torment to move one block, what must it cost a family of
fourteen to move seven wagonloads a mile? There is a problem that will
keep you awake nights. When they said to me: "Oh, it will be nothing for
you to move!" When they pointed with derision at my few belongings I
said to myself: "All right; perhaps it will be easier than my fears." So
I packed up my penknife, my mucilage pot, my paper cutter, my eleven
dozen pencils and my assortment of stub pens, my violet ink, my clock,
pictures, calendars, Japanese fans, scraps of poetry, magazines, books,
lemons, buttercups, blotting pads, and sundry trifles it were waste of
time to enumerate, and sallied forth to find a son of wrath to transport
them to new quarters. "How much will you charge to move two articles of
furniture one block?" I asked a guileless Scandinavian teamster. "Three
dollars," replied he with touching promptitude. I passed him by, and
after two days' search found a down-trodden African who said he would
undertake the job for $1.50. I wish you could have seen the look in the
darky's face when he tried to lift the desk. "Gor-a-mighty, Missus,
what's in that ar desk?" cried he. I had to unpack every blessed article
but the penknife and a postage stamp before he would move the thing, and
all the long day I trotted back and forth with market baskets full of
the original contents of that desk. When at last I had them moved I
couldn't find anything. I wanted my pencils, but haven't seen 'em yet.
The paperweight had smashed the ink bottle, and the mucilage had formed
a glassy pool in which my buttercups were anchored like islands. The
frizzes and hairpins and other little what-nots that I kept in the right
hand drawer had dabbled themselves in the ink and mucilage and fused
themselves into one indistinguishable horror. I haven't been able to
find one thing that I wanted since I moved but a toothpick, and that
don't look exactly natural. The overshoes, and gossamer, and jersey
waists, soap and chamois skins that I secreted in the left hand drawer
haven't been seen since they left in the market basket under convoy of
the Ethiopian. He has probably opened a costumer's shop on Halsted
street with them. When I move again I shall carry my pencils behind my
ear and my penknife between my teeth. I'll never be found a second time
stringing my beads with a toothpick and relying for time upon a clock
with the hour hand missing. When next I move may it be straight through
to glory, where the lease is long and the landlord never sublets.
* * * * *
Let anybody in this world really undertake to thoroughly do his duty; to
do it in the face of opposition, prejudice and the meddling
interference of fools, and he becomes a target set upon a hill for the
convenient aim of popular scorn. It is harder for a man to be true to a
principle than it is to face a gun. If an employe in the daily discharge
of duty aims to be prompt, faithful and fearless he is boycotted by his
associates in almost as conspicuous a way as was poor little David
Copperfield with the pasteboard motto on his back. We all of us have
known in early life the "pet scholar" of the school, the dear little
virtuous prig who never did anything out of the way, who never played a
prank or accomplished anything but a pattern pose. Small wonder that we
hated him! Good behavior, which has for its aim merely the disconcerting
of others and the aggrandizement of one's self, is snobbery and should
be loathed as such. But there is a courage of over-conviction which
leads a man to hold himself honest among thieves, pure among libertines
and faithful among time-servers and strikers. It was such a spirit as
this that made dear little "Tom," at "Rugby," loyal to his mother's
teachings, and led him to kneel amid a crowd of jeering boys to say the
prayers she taught him. It is such a spirit as this that holds a man or
woman true to the sense of justice in an unjust world, and keeps them
undaunted in the midst of enemies, who hate them for doing their duty
and caring as much for the work as they do for the wages that work
commands. The man who can hold himself beyond the reach of bribery,
uncorrupted in corruptible times, and sure to keep his colors flying,
with never a chance to trail them in the dust for politic purposes, is a
greater hero than many a blue-coat who marches to battle. Give us a few
more such heroes, oh, good and merciful dispenser of destinies, and
sweep off the track a hundred thousand or so of the eye-servants,
time-servers and money-graspers who keep the profitable places of the
world's giving away from honest men and faithful women.
* * * * *