nearly finished me. (_Shouts heard._) They're bringing out the
horses. (_Looks through knot-hole._) I can't see worth a cent.
It's not hole enough for me. To Hades with dignity! I'll inspect
that tree. (_Goes to tree; puts arm around it._)
[_Enter_ Alathea, _R._]
_Alathea._ (_Pauses, R. C._) Everyone's at the races. I'm
perfectly safe. There is that blessed knot-hole. (_Goes to hole;
looks through._)
_Col._ (_Comes from behind tree; sees Alathea._) A woman, by all
that's wonderful--a woman at my knot-hole. (_Approaches._) Madam!
(_Lays hand on her shoulder._)
_Alathea._ (_Indignantly._) Sir! (_Turns._) Col. Sundusky
Doolittle!
_Col._ Miss Alathea Layson! (_Bus. bows._)
_Alathea._ Colonel, what are you all doing here?
_Col._ Madam, what are you all doing here?
_Alathea._ Colonel, I couldn't wait to hear the result.
_Col._ No more could I.
_Alathea._ But I didn't enter the race-track.
_Col._ I was equally firm.
_Alathea._ Neb. told me of the knot-hole.
_Col._ The rascal, he told me, too!
_Alathea._ Colonel, we must forgive each other. If you really must
look, there is the knot-hole.
_Col._ No, Miss Lethe, I resign the knot-hole to you. I shall
climb the tree.
_Alathea._ (_As Colonel climbs tree._) Be careful, Colonel, don't
break your neck, but get where you can see.
_Col._ (_Up tree._) Ah, what a gallant sight! There's Catalpa,
Evangeline--and there's Queen Bess! (_Shouts heard._)
_Alathea._ What's that? (_To tree._)
_Col._ A false start. They'll make it this time. (_Shouts heard._)
They're off--off! Oh, what a splendid start!
_Alathea._ Who's ahead? Who's ahead? (_To tree._)
_Col._ Catalpa sets the pace, the others lying well back.
_Alathea._ Why doesn't Queen Bess come to the front? Oh, if I were
only on that mare. (_Back to fence._)
_Col._ At the half, Evangeline takes the lead--Catalpa next--the
rest bunched. Oh, great heavens!--(_Lethe to tree._)--there's a
foul--a jam--and Queen Bess is left behind ten lengths! She hasn't
the ghost of a show! Look! (_Lethe back to tree._) She's at it
again. But she can't make it up. It's beyond anything mortal. And
yet she's gaining--gaining!
_Alathea._ (_Bus._) Keep it up--keep it up!
_Col._ At the three quarters; she's only five lengths behind the
leader, and gaining still!
_Alathea._ (_Bus._) Oh, push!--push!--I can't stand it! I've got
to see! (_Climbs tree._)
_Col._ Coming up, Miss Lethe! All right, don't break your neck,
but get where you can see. In the stretch. Her head's at Catalpa's
crupper--now her saddle-bow, but she can't gain another inch! But
look--look! she lifts her--and, Great Scott! she wins!
(_As he speaks, flats forming fence are drawn. Horses dash past, Queen
Bess in the lead. Drop at back shows grand stand, with fence in front
of same. Spectators back of fence._ Neb. _and_ Frank. _Band playing
"Dixie."_ Holton _standing near, chagrined._ Col. _waves hat and_
Alathea _handkerchief, in tree. Spectators shout._)
(_For second curtain_, Madge _returns on Queen Bess_. Col. _and_
Alathea _down from tree and passing near. Other horses enter as
curtain falls._)
[_Curtain_]
FOOTNOTE:
[12] Copyright, 1897, by Jacob Litt.
JOHN P. FRUIT
John Phelps Fruit, the distinguished Poe scholar, was born at
Pembroke, Kentucky, November 22, 1855. He was graduated from Bethel
College, Russellville, Kentucky, in 1878, after which he became a
teacher. For two years Professor Fruit was president of Liberty
College, Glasgow, Kentucky; and from 1883 to 1897 he was professor of
English in his _alma mater_, Bethel College. In 1895 the University of
Leipzig granted him the Ph. D. degree; and three years later he was
elected to the chair of English in William Jewell College, Liberty,
Missouri, which he still occupies. Dr. Fruit's first work was an
edition of Milton's _Lycidas_ (Boston, 1894), and this was followed by
his edition of Coleridge's _The Ancient Mariner_ (Boston, 1899). Both
of these little volumes have been used in many schools and colleges.
Dr. Fruit devoted many years to the study of Edgar Allan Poe and his
works, and his researches he brought together in _The Mind and Art of
Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899). This book gave Dr. Fruit a foremost
place among the Poe scholars of his time. His work was officially
recognized by the University of Virginia, the poet's college, and it
has been widely and cordially reviewed. At the present time Dr. Fruit
is engaged in a comprehensive study of Nathaniel Hawthorne, his
pamphlet, entitled _Hawthorne's Immitigable_ (Louisville, Kentucky, n.
d.), having attracted a deal of attention.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from
Prof. Fruit to the writer.
THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY[13]
[From _The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899)]
Accustomed as we are, from infancy up, to so much "rhyme without
reason," in our nursery jingles and melodies, we associate some of
Poe's poetry, remotely, at first blush, with the negroes singing "in
the cotton and the corn." So much sound makes us suspicious of the
sense, but a little closer ear appreciates delicate and telling
onomatopoetic effects. Liquids and vowels join hands in sweetest
fellowship to unite "the hidden soul of harmony."
As if, at last, to give the world assurance that he had been trifling
with rhythm and rhyme, he wrote _The Bells_.
The secret of the charm resides in the humanizing of the tones of the
bells. It is not personification, but the speaking in person to our
souls. To appreciate this more full, observe how Ruskin humanizes the
sky for us. "Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful,
never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions,
almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its
appeal to what is immortal in us, is as distinct, as its ministry of
chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential."
Poe made so much of music in his doctrine of poetry, yet he never
humanized the notes of a musical instrument....
He took the common bells,--the more praise for his artistic
judgment,--and rang them through all the diapason of human sentiment.
If we have imagined a closer correspondence between expression and
conception, in the previously considered poems, than really exists,
there can be no doubt on that point, even to the mind of the wayfaring
man, in reading _The Bells_.
If it be thought that the poet could harp on only one theme, let the
variety of topic in _The Bells_ protest.
Again, Poe's doctrine of "rhythm and rhyme" finds its amplest
verification in _The Bells_. Reason and not "ecstatic intuition," led
him to conclude that English versification is exceedingly simple; that
"one-tenth of it, possibly, may be called ethereal; nine-tenths,
however, appertain to the mathematics; and the whole is included
within the limits of the commonest common-sense."
It must be believed that Poe appropriated, with the finest artistic
discernment, the vitalizing power of rhythm and rhyme, and nowhere
with more skill than in _The Bells_. It is the climax of his art on
its technical side.
Read the poem and think back over the course of the development of
poet's art-instincts.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] Copyright, 1899, by A. S. Barnes and Company.
HARRISON ROBERTSON
Thomas Harrison Robertson, erstwhile poet and novelist, and now a
well-known journalist, was born at Murfreesboro, Tennessee, January
16, 1856. He was educated at the University of Virginia, after which
he settled at Louisville, Kentucky, as a newspaper man, verse-maker,
and fictionist. Mr. Robertson has held almost every position on _The
Courier-Journal_, being managing editor at the present time. He won
his first fame with a Kentucky racing story, the best one ever
written, entitled _How the Derby Was Won_, which was originally
published in _Scribner's Magazine_ for August, 1889. Ten years later
his first long novel, _If I Were a Man_ (New York, 1899), "the story
of a New-Southerner," appeared, and it was followed by _Red Blood and
Blue_ (New York, 1900); _The Inlander_ (New York, 1901); _The
Opponents_ (New York, 1902); and his most recent novel, _The Pink
Typhoon_ (New York, 1906), an automobile love story of slight merit.
In the early eighties "T. H. Robertson" wrote some of the very
cleverest verse, so-called society verse for the most part, that has
ever been done by a Kentucky hand; but he soon abandoned "Thomas" and
the Muse. The writer has always held that our literature lost a
charming poet to win a feeble fictionist when Harrison Robertson
changed literary steads, although his _How the Derby Was Won_ must not
be forgotten. Now, however, he has given up the literary life for the
daily grind of a great newspaper; and he may never publish another
poem or novel. More's the pity!
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (April, 1900; April, 1901);
_Scribner's Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The Bookman_ (December,
1910).
TWO TRIOLETS[14]
[From _A Vers de Societe Anthology_, by Caroline Wells (New York,
1907)]
I
What He Said:
This kiss upon your fan I press--
Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it?
And may it from its soft recess--
This kiss upon your fan I press--
Be blown to you, a shy caress,
By this white down, whene'er you use it.
This kiss upon your fan I press--
Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you _don't_ refuse it!
II
What She Thought:
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
The stupid man,
To kiss a fan,
When he knows that--he--can--
Or ought to know it--
To kiss a _fan_!
What a poky poet!
STORY OF THE GATE
[From the same]
Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed,
Under the maple, it was hinged--
The little wooden gate;
'Twas there within the quiet gloam,
When I had strolled with Nelly home,
I used to pause and wait.
Before I said to her good-night
Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite
Within the garden's pale;
And there, the gate between us two,
We'd linger as all lovers do,
And lean upon the rail.
And face to face, eyes close to eyes,
Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise,
After a stealthy quest,--
So close I'd bend, ere she'd retreat,
That I'd grow drunken from the sweet
Tuebrose upon her breast.
We'd talk--in fitful style, I ween--
With many a meaning glance between
The tender words and low;
We'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit,
Some idle gossip we'd repeat,
And then I'd move to go.
"Good-night," I'd say; "good-night--good-by!"
"Good-night"--from her with half a sigh--
"Good-night!" "_Good_-night!" And then--
And then I do _not_ go, but stand,
Again lean on the railing, and--
Begin it all again.
Ah! that was many a day ago--
That pleasant summer-time--although
The gate is standing yet;
A little cranky, it may be,
A little weather-worn--like me--
Who never can forget
The happy--"End?" My cynic friend,
Pray save your sneers--there was no "end."
Watch yonder chubby thing!
That is our youngest, hers and mine;
See how he climbs, his legs to twine
About the gate and swing.
FOOTNOTE:
[14] Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
INGRAM CROCKETT
Ingram Crockett, whom a group of critics have hailed as one of the most
exquisite poets of Nature yet born in Kentucky, first saw the light at
Henderson, Kentucky, February 10, 1856. His father, John W. Crockett,
was a noted public speaker in his day and generation, and a member of
the Confederate Congress from Kentucky. Ingram Crockett was educated in
the schools of his native town, but he never went to college. For many
years past Mr. Crockett has been cashier of the Planters State Bank,
Henderson, but the jingle of the golden coins has not seared the spirit
of song within his soul. In 1888 he began his literary career by
editing, with the late Charles J. O'Malley, the Kentucky poet and
critic, _Ye Wassail Bowle_, a pamphlet anthology of Kentucky poems and
prose pieces. A small collection of Mr. Crockett's poems, entitled _The
Port of Pleasant Dreams_ (Henderson, 1892), was followed by a long poem,
_Rhoda, an Easter Idyl_. The first large collection of his lyrics was
_Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898). This volume won the poet
friends in all parts of the country, and proclaimed him a true
interpreter of many-mooded Nature. _A Year Book of Kentucky Woods and
Fields_ (Buffalo, New York, 1901), a prose-poem, contains some excellent
writing. A story of the Christiandelphians of western Kentucky, _A
Brother of Christ_ (New York, 1905), is Mr. Crockett's only novel, and
it was not overly successful. _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_
(Chicago, 1908), is his most recent volume of verse. "It contains poems
as big as the world," one enthusiastic critic exclaimed, but it has not
brought the author the larger recognition that he so richly deserves.
This work surely contains Mr. Crockett's best work so far. One does not
have to travel far in any direction in Kentucky in order to find many
persons declaring that Ingram Crockett is the finest poet living in the
state to-day. His latest book, _The Greeting and Goodbye of the Birds_
(New York, 1912), is a small volume of prose-pastels, somewhat after the
manner of his _Year Book_. It again reveals the author's close
companionship with Nature, and his exquisite expression of what it all
means to him.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey
(Louisville, 1892); _The Courier-Journal_ (August 3, 1912).
AUDUBON[15]
[From _Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898)]
Not with clash of arms,
Not 'midst war's alarms,
Thy splendid work was done,
Thy great victory won.
Unknown, thro' field and brake,
By calm or stormy lake,
Lured by swift passing wings--
Songs that a new world sings--
Thou didst untiring go
Led by thine ardor's glow,
Cheered by thy kindling thought
Beauty thy hand had wrought.
Leaving thy matchless page
Gift to a later age
That would revere thy name--
Build for thee, surely fame.
O, to have been with thee,
In that wild life and free,
While all the birds passed by
Under the new world sky!
O, to have heard the song
Of that glad-hearted throng,
Ere yet the settlers came
Giving the woods to flame!
O, to have with thee gone
Up the white steps of Dawn!
Or where the burning west
Crimsoned the wild drake's breast!
Yet better than bays we bring
Are the woods whispering
When life and leaf are new
Under the tender blue!
Master, awake! for May
Comes on her rainbowed way--
Hear thou bird-song again
Sweeter than praise of men!
THE LONGING[16]
[From _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_ (Chicago, 1908)]
I am weary of thought, forever the world goes by
With laughter and tears, and no one can tell me why--
I am weary of thought and all it may ever bring--
_But oh, for the light-loving fields where the meadow-larks sing!_
I have toiled at the mills, I've known the grind and the roar
Over and over again one day as the day before--
And what does it all avail and the end of it--where?
_But oh, for the clover in bloom and the breeze blowing there!_
Fame? What is fame but a glimmering mote, earth cast,
That e'en as we grasp it dulls--dust of the dust at last.
For what have the ages to say of the myriad dead?
_But oh, for the frost-silvered hills and the dawn breaking red!_
Ah, God! the day is so short and the night comes so soon!
And who will remember the time, or the wish, or the boon?
And who can turn backward our feet from the destined place?
_But oh, for the bobolink's cheer and the beauty of April's face!_
DEAREST
[From the same]
Dearest, there is a scarlet leaf upon the blackgum tree,
And in the corn the crickets chirp a ceaseless threnody--
And scattered down the purple swales are clumps of marigold,
And hazier are the distant fields in many a lilac fold.
Dearest, the elder bloom is gone, and heavy, dark maroon,
The elderberries bow beneath a mellow, ripening noon--
And, shaking out its silver sail, the milkweed-down is blown
Through deeps of dreamy amber air in search of ports unknown.
Dearest, full many a flower now lies withered by the path,
Their fragrance but a memory, the soul's sad aftermath--
The birds are flown, save now and then some loiterer thrills the way
With joyous bursts of lyric song born of the heart of May.
Ah, dearest, it is good-bye time for Summer and her train,
And many a golden hour will pass that ne'er shall come again--
But, dearest, Love with us abides tho' all the rest should go,
And in Love's garden, dearest one, there is no hint of snow.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Copyright, 1898, by R. H. Russell.
[16] Copyright, 1908, by the Author.
ELIZA CALVERT OBENCHAIN
Mrs. Eliza Calvert Obenchain, ("Eliza Calvert Hall"), creator of _Aunt
Jane of Kentucky_, was born at Bowling Green, Kentucky, February 11,
1856; and she has lived in that little city all her life. Miss Calvert
was educated in the private schools of her town, and then spent a year
at "The Western," a woman's college near Cincinnati, Ohio. Her first
poems appeared in the old _Scribner's_, when John G. Holland was the
editor; and her first prose papers were published in _Kate Field's
Washington_. She was married to Professor William A. Obenchain, of
Ogden College, Bowling Green, on July 8, 1885, and four children have
been born to them. _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907), the
memories of an old lady done into short stories, opens with one of the
best tales ever written by an American woman, entitled _Sally Ann's
Experience_. This charming prose idyl first appeared in the
_Cosmopolitan Magazine_, for July, 1898, since which time it has been
cordially commended by former President Roosevelt, has been reprinted
in _Cosmopolitan_, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and many other
magazines, read by many public speakers, and finally issued as a
single book in an illustrated _edition de luxe_ (Boston, 1910). Many
of the other stories in _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ are very fine, but
_Sally Ann_ is far and away superior to any of them. Mrs. Obenchain's
_The Land of Long Ago_ (Boston, 1909), was another collection of Aunt
Jane stories. _To Love and to Cherish_ (Boston, 1911), is the author's
first and latest novel. Upon these four volumes Mrs. Obenchain's fame
rests secure, but _Sally Ann's Experience_ will be read and enjoyed
when her other books have been forgotten. She struck a universal truth
in this little tale, and the world will not willingly let it die. Her
most recent work is a _A Book of Hand-Woven Coverlets_ (Boston,
1912), a large and delightful volume on coverlet collecting and the
study of coverlet making.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (July, 1908); _The Bookman_
(October, 1910).
"SWEET DAY OF REST"[17]
[From _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907)]
"I ricollect some fifty-odd years ago the town folks got to keepin'
Sunday mighty strict. They hadn't had a preacher for a long time, and
the church'd been takin' things easy, and finally they got a new
preacher from down in Tennessee, and the first thing he did was to
draw lines around 'em close and tight about keepin' Sunday. Some o'
the members had been in the habit o' havin' their wood chopped on
Sunday. Well, as soon as the new preacher come, he said that Sunday
wood-choppin' had to cease amongst his church-members or he'd have 'em
up before the session. I ricollect old Judge Morgan swore he'd have
his wood chopped any day that suited him. And he had a load o' wood
carried down cellar, and the nigger man chopped all day long in the
cellar, and nobody ever would 'a' found it out, but pretty soon they
got up a big revival that lasted three months and spread 'way out into
the country, and bless your life, old Judge Morgan was one o' the
first to be converted; and when he give in his experience, he told
about the wood-choppin', and how he hoped to be forgiven for breakin'
the Sabbath day.
"Well, of course us people out in the country wouldn't be outdone by
the town folks, so Parson Page got up and preached on the Fourth
Commandment and all about that pore man that was stoned to death for
pickin' up a few sticks on the seventh day. And Sam Amos, he says
after meetin' broke, says he, 'It's my opinion that that man was a
industrious, enterprisin' feller that was probably pickin' up
kindlin'-wood to make his wife a fire, and,' says he, 'if they wanted
to stone anybody to death they better 'a' picked out some lazy,
triflin' feller that didn't have energy enough to work Sunday or any
other day.' Sam always would have his say, and nothin' pleased him
better'n to talk back to the preachers and git the better of 'em in a
argument. I ricollect us women talked that sermon over at the Mite
Society, and Maria Petty says: 'I don't know but what it's a wrong
thing to say, but it looks to me like that Commandment wasn't intended
for anybody but them Israelites. It was mighty easy for them to keep
the Sabbath day holy, but,' says she, 'the Lord don't rain down manna
in my yard. And,' says she, 'men can stop plowin' and plantin' on
Sunday, but they don't stop eatin', and as long as men have to eat on
Sunday, women'll have to work.'
"And Sally Ann, she spoke up, and says she, 'That's so; and these very
preachers that talk so much about keepin' the Sabbath day holy,
they'll walk down out of their pulpits and set down at some woman's
table and eat fried chicken and hot biscuits and corn bread and five
or six kinds o' vegetables, and never think about the work it took to
git the dinner, to say nothin' o' the dish-washin' to come after.'
"There's one thing, child, that I never told to anybody but Abram; I
reckon it was wicked, and I ought to be ashamed to own it, but"--here
her voice fell to a confessional key--"I never did like Sunday till I
begun to git old. And the way Sunday used to be kept, it looks to me
like anybody could 'a' been expected to like it but old folks and lazy
folks. You see, I never was one o' these folks that's born tired. I
loved to work. I never had need of any more rest than I got every
night when I slept, and I woke up every mornin' ready for the day's
work. I hear folks prayin' for rest and wishing' for rest, but, honey,
all my prayer was, 'Lord, give me work, and strength enough to do it.'
And when a person looks at all the things there is to be done in this
world, they won't feel like restin' when they ain't tired.
"Abram used to say he believed I tried to make work for myself Sunday
and every other day; and I ricollect I used to be right glad when any
o' the neighbors'd git sick on Sunday and send for me to help nurse
'em. Nursing the sick was a work o' necessity, and mercy, too. And
then, child, the Lord don't ever rest. The Bible says He rested on the
seventh day when He got through makin' the world, and I reckon that
was rest enough for Him. For, jest look; everything goes on Sundays
jest the same as week-days. The grass grows, and the sun shines, and
the wind blows and He does it all."
"'For still the Lord is Lord of might;
In deeds, in deeds He takes delight,'"
I said.
"That's it," said Aunt Jane, delightedly. "There ain't any religion in
restin' unless you're tired, and work's jest as holy in his sight as
rest."
Our faces were turned toward the western sky, where the sun was
sinking behind the amethystine hills. The swallows were darting and
twittering over our heads, a somber flock of blackbirds rose from a
huge oak tree in the meadow across the road, and darkened the sky for
a moment in their flight to the cedars that were their nightly resting
place. Gradually the mist changed from amethyst to rose, and the
poorest object shared in the transfiguration of the sunset hour.
Is it unmeaning chance that sets man's days, his dusty, common days,
between the glories of the rising and the setting sun, and his life,
his dusty, common life, between the two solemnities of birth and
death? Bounded by the splendors of the morning and evening skies, what
glory of thought and deed should each day hold! What celestial dreams
and vitalizing sleep should fill our nights! For why should day be
more magnificent than life?
As we watched in understanding silence, the enchantment slowly faded.
The day of rest was over, a night of rest was at hand; and in the
shadowy hour between the two hovered the benediction of that peace
which "passeth all understanding."
FOOTNOTE:
[17] Copyright, 1907, by Little, Brown and Company.
KATE SLAUGHTER McKINNEY