always to be _a_ consideration. When a boy and a girl don't think
enough about money before the ceremony, they're going to have to think
altogether too much about it after; and when a man's doing sums at
home evenings, it comes kind of awkward for him to try to hold his
wife on his lap.
There's nothing in this talk that two can live cheaper than one. A
good wife doubles a man's expenses and doubles his happiness, and
that's a pretty good investment if a fellow's got the money to invest.
I have met women who had cut their husbands' expenses in half, but
they needed the money because they had doubled their own. I might
add, too, that I've met a good many husbands who had cut their wives'
expenses in half, and they fit naturally into any discussion of our
business, because they are hogs. There's a point where economy becomes
a vice, and that's when a man leaves its practice to his wife.
An unmarried man is a good deal like a piece of unimproved real
estate--he may be worth a whole lot of money, but he isn't of any
particular use except to build on. The great trouble with a lot of
these fellows is that they're "made land," and if you dig down a few
feet you strike ooze and booze under the layer of dollars that their
daddies dumped in on top. Of course, the only way to deal with a
proposition of that sort is to drive forty-foot piles clear down to
solid rock and then to lay railroad iron and cement till you've got
something to build on. But a lot of women will go right ahead without
any preliminaries and wonder what's the matter when the walls begin to
crack and tumble about their ears.
FOOTNOTE:
[57] Copyright, 1902, by Small, Maynard and Company.
SISTER IMELDA
Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born at Jackson,
Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of Charles Brady, a native
of Ireland, and soldier in the Confederate army. After the war he went
to Jackson, Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of
Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their second child was
Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. She was educated by the
Dominican sisters at Jackson and, at the age of eighteen years,
entered the sisterhood, taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the
next twenty-three years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in Roman
Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, but she is now
connected with the Sacred Heart Institute, Watertown, Massachusetts.
Sister Imelda's booklet of poems has been highly praised by competent
critics. It was entitled _Heart Whispers_ (1905), and issued under her
pen-name of "Estelle Marie Gerard." Many of these poems were first
published in _The Midland Review_, a Louisville magazine edited by the
late Charles J. O'Malley, the poet and critic. Sister Imelda is a
woman of rare culture and a real singer, but her strict religious life
has hampered her literary labors to an unusual degree.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_ (Columbus, Ohio, 1903); letters
from Sister Imelda to the Author.
A JUNE IDYL[58]
[From _Heart Whispers_ (1905)]
Every glade sings now of summer--
Songs as sweet as violets' breath;
And the glad, warm heart of nature
Thrills and gently answereth.
Answers through the lily-lyrics
And the rosebud's joyous song,
Faintly o'er the valley stealing,
As the June days speed along.
And we, pausing, fondly listen
To their tuneful minstrelsy,
Floating far beyond the wildwood
To the ever restless sea.
Till the echoes, softly, lowly,
Trembling on the twilight air--
Tells us that each rose and lily
Bows its scented head in prayer.
HEART MEMORIES
[From the same]
In fancy's golden barque at eventide
My spirit floateth to the Far Away,
And dreamland faces come as fades the day.
They lean upon my heart. We gently glide
Adown the magic shores of long ago,
While memories, like silver lily bells,
Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells
And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low.
When eventide has slowly winged its flight,
And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light,
Ah, then there swiftly come again to me,
Like echoes of some song-bird melody,
Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height,
Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee.
A NUN'S PRAYER
[From the same]
When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells,
And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea,
I wander silently o'er the scented lea
By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells,
And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells
Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee,
Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny
Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells
For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace
Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest.
Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease,
Until Death's angel makes the melody
That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee,
Then only will it know eternal rest.
FOOTNOTE:
[58] Copyright, 1905, by the Author.
HARRISON CONRARD
Harrison Conrard, poet, was born at Dodsonville, Ohio, September 21,
1869. He was educated at St. Xavier's College, Cincinnati. From 1892
until the spring of 1899 Mr. Conrard lived at Ludlow, Kentucky, when
he removed to Arizona to engage in the lumber business at Flagstaff,
his present home. While living at Ludlow he published his first book
of poems, entitled _Idle Songs and Idle Sonnets_ (1898), which is now
out of print. Mr. Conrard's second and best known volume of verse,
called _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907), contained a group of singing lyrics
of almost entrancing beauty. These are the only books he has so far
published. "Some day," the poet once wrote, "I shall roll up my
bedding, take my fishing rod and wander back east, and Kentucky will
be good enough for me." He has, however, never come back. A new volume
of his verse is to be issued shortly.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Conrard to the Author; _Poet-Lore_
(Boston, Fall Issue, 1907).
IN OLD TUCSON[59]
[From _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907)]
In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
What cared I how the days ran on?
A brown hand trailing the viol-strings,
Hair as black as the raven's wing,
Lips that laughed and a voice that clung
To the sweet old airs of the Spanish tongue
Had drenched my soul with a mellow rime
Till all life shone, in that golden clime,
With the tender glow of the morning-time.
In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
How swift the merry days ran on!
In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
How soon the parting day came on!
But I oft turn back in my hallowed dreams,
And the low adobe a palace seems,
Where her sad heart sighs and her sweet voice sings
To the notes that throb from her viol-strings.
Oh, those tear-dimmed eyes and that soft brown hand!
And a soul that glows like the desert sand--
The golden fruit of a golden land!
In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
The long, lone days, O Time, speed on!
A KENTUCKY SUNRISE
[From the same]
Faint streaks of light; soft murmurs; sweet
Meadow-breaths; low winds; the deep gray
Yielding to crimson; a lamb's bleat;
Soft-tinted hills; a mockbird's lay:
And the red Sun brings forth the Day.
A KENTUCKY SUNSET
[From the same]
The great Sun dies in the west; gold
And scarlet fill the skies; the white
Daisies nod in repose; the fold
Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight:
The long shadows come, and then--Night.
FOOTNOTE:
[59] Copyright, 1907, by Richard G. Badger.
ALICE HEGAN RICE
Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, creator of "Mrs. Wiggs," was born at
Shelbyville, Kentucky, January 11, 1870. She was educated at Hampton
College, Louisville. On December 18, 1902, she was married to Mr. Cale
Young Rice, the Louisville poetic dramatist. Mrs. Rice is a member of
several clubs, and to this work she has devoted considerable
attention. Her first book, published under her maiden name of Alice
Caldwell Hegan, the redoubtable _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ (New
York, 1901), is an epic of optimism, "David Harum's Widow," to its
admirers; and a platitudinous production, to its non-admirers. At any
rate, it achieved the success it was written to achieve: one of the
"six best sellers" for more than a year, and now in its forty-seventh
edition! That, surely, is glory--and money--enough for the most
exacting. The love episode running through the little tale did not
greatly add to its merit, and when the old woman of the many trials
and tribulations is absent, it drags itself endlessly along. _Lovey
Mary_ (New York, 1903), was a weakish sequel, partly redeemed by the
one readable chapter upon the old Kentucky woman of Martinsville,
Indiana, and her _Denominational Garden_. That chapter and _The
'Christmas Lady'_ from _Mrs. Wiggs_, were reprinted in London as very
slight volumes. _Sandy_ (New York, 1905), was the story of a little
Scotch stowaway in Kentucky; _Captain June_ (New York, 1907), related
the experiences of an American lad in Japan; _Mr. Opp_ (New York,
1909), was a rather unpleasant tale of an eccentric Kentucky
journalist, yet quite the strongest thing she has done. Mrs. Gusty,
Jimmy Fallows, Cove City, _The Opp Eagle_, its editor, D. Webster Opp,
his half-crazed sister, Kippy, are very real and very pathetic. Mrs.
Rice's latest story, _A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill_ (New York, 1912),
was heralded as a "delightful blend of Cabbage Patch philosophy and
high romance;" and it was said to have been the result of a suggestion
made to the author by the late editor and poet, Richard Watson Gilder,
that she should paint upon a larger canvas--which suggestion was both
good and timely. That the "Cabbage Patch philosophy" is present no one
will deny; but the "high romance" is reached at the top of Billy-Goat
Hill which is, after all, not a very dizzy altitude. It was, of
course, one of the "six best sellers" for several months. Indeed, more
than a million copies of her books have been sold; and nearly as many
people have seen the dramatization of _Mr. Opp_ and _Mrs. Wiggs_.[60]
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 6, 1902); _The Bookman_
(May, 1903); _The Critic_ (June, 1904).
THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES[61]
[From _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909)]
Half an hour later Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All
the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his
heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had
been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His
town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!
With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling
Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his
latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room.
The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white,
spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke from the stillness.
"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.
From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners,
peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that
was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!"
At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with
shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with
papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of
charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had
incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of
paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him
from Coreyville.
As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon
something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the
light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the
girl's clear, round hand:
Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the
asylum.
Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly;
"she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down
on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be
afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for
me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into
the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road,
calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking
skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.
Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for
the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat
had evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the
town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little
woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying
her name was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show
her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found
unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the
doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable.
"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not
to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack
coming on, and wanted to be taken care of."
He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one
who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of
insanity.
"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr.
Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that
won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all
winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a
number of cities on the geographical atlas."
"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never
be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should
never be stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we
understand all these things and treat the patient accordingly."
"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked
Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow
up in any way?"
The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.
"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent
institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your
family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her
stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will
be."
Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his
hand and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off
for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat
anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain.
Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the
one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a
future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged
self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it,
at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of
Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise;
of Hinton, whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running
accompaniment to his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of
the doctor urging him to the course that his heart prompted. For a
moment the personal forces involved trembled in equilibrium.
After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief
across his brow.
"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath
of a man who has been under water.
In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined.
As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a
moment dizzily against the wall.
"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whiskey," suggested the
doctor, who had noted his exhaustion.
Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old
professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he
said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle';
and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody
knows, a complete teetotaler."
At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, was a
slight, familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he turned
fiercely upon the attendant.
"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?"
"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman,
reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. She wants
it fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us to touch her.
She has been crying about it ever since she came."
In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, Kippy
darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want it parted on
the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the rest hanging down?
Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; brother D.'ll take care of you."
She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in a passion
of relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and neck were wet
with her tears.
As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her into
her little bedroom.
"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding her
hand, "and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish will have a nice,
hot supper all waiting for us."
But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she broke forth
into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed him from her and
looked about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I mustn't go; I am crazy!"
But he told her about the three little kittens that had been born
under the kitchen steps, and in an instant she was a-tremble with
eagerness to go home to see them.
An hour later Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank and waited
for the little launch that was to take them back to the Cove. A
curious crowd had gathered at a short distance, for their story had
gone the rounds.
Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight in
front of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was suffering.
Miss Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale hair flying about
her shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his.
"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I be grown
up enough to marry Mr. Hinton?"
Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said, with all the
gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never going to grow up
at all. You are just always going to be brother D.'s little girl. You
see, Mr. Hinton's too old for you, just like--" he paused, then
finished it bravely--"just like I am too old for Miss Guin-never. I
wouldn't be surprised if they got married with each other some day.
You and me will just have to take care of each other."
She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but he was
ready for her with a smile.
"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't we?"
FOOTNOTES:
[60] _Mr. Opp_ was dramatized by Douglas Z. Doty, a New York editor,
and presented at Macaulay's Theatre, in Louisville, but it was shortly
sent to the store-house. _Mrs. Wiggs_ was put into play-form by Mrs.
Anne (Laziere) Crawford Flexner, in 1904, with Madge Carr Cook in the
title-role. Mrs. Flexner was born at Georgetown, Kentucky; educated at
Vassar; married Abraham Flexner of Louisville, June 23, 1898; lived at
Louisville until June, 1905, since which time she has spent a year in
Cambridge, Mass., and a year abroad; now residing in New York City.
She has written two original plays: _A Man's Woman_, in four acts; and
_A Lucky Star_, the fount of inspiration being a novel by C. N. and A.
M. Williamson, entitled _The Motor Chaperon_, which was produced by
Charles Frohman, with Willie Collier in the steller part, at the
Hudson Theatre, New York, in 1910. She also dramatized A. E. W.
Mason's story, _Miranda of the Balcony_ (London, 1899), which was
produced in New York by Mrs. Fiske in 1901. Mrs. Flexner is the only
successful woman playwright Kentucky has produced; and it is a real
pity that none of her plays have been published. _Mrs. Wiggs_ has held
the "boards" for eight year; and it seems destined to go on forever.
[61] Copyright, 1909, by the Century Company.
RICHARD H. WILSON
Richard Henry Wilson ("Richard Fisguill"), novelist and educator, was
born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, March 6, 1870. He received the degrees
of B. A. and M. A. from South Kentucky College, and Ph. D. from Johns
Hopkins in 1898. Dr. Wilson spent ten years in Europe studying at
universities in France, Germany, Italy, and Spain; and he married a
Frenchwoman. He has been a great "globe-trotter," and he speaks a dozen
languages fluently. Since 1899 Dr. Wilson has been professor of Romantic
languages at the University of Virginia. All the appointments of his
home are in the French style, and French is the language of the family.
Professor Wilson is a good Kentuckian, nevertheless, and he knows the
land and the people well. He is to the University of Virginia what
Professor Charles T. Copeland is to Harvard. His first book, _The
Preposition A_, is now out of print. His novel, _Mazel_ (New York,
1902), takes rather the form of a satire upon life at the University of
Virginia. Professor Wilson's next story, _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York,
1905), is a rollicking extravaganza of cave and country life at Cadiz,
Kentucky. Both of his novels have been issued under his pen-name of
"Richard Fisguill"--"Fisguill" being bastard French for "Wilson."
Professor Wilson contributes much to the magazines. Four of his
short-stories were printed in _Harper's Weekly_ between April and
October of 1912, under the following titles, and in the order of their
appearance: _Orphanage_, _The Nymph_, _Seven Slumbers_, and _The
Princess of Is_. Another story, _The Waitress at the Phoenix_, was
published in _Collier's_ for September 7, 1912. A collection of his
short-stories may be issued in 1913.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v.
xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).
SUSAN--THE VENUS OF CADIZ[62]
[From _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, 1905)]
Colonel Norris was as laconic as usual, not even giving his address.
He had written four letters in twelve years.
"The Colonel means a million francs," explained Captain Malepeste. "His
letter was addressed to me, and he knows I always count in francs."
"The Colonel means a million marks," replied Captain Bisherig. "He
began his letter: 'Dear Malepeste and Bisherig,' and I don't believe
Colonel Norris would think in francs when he had me in mind."
"But the Colonel is an American," observed Gertrude. "Don't you think
it would be more natural for him to count and think in dollars--a
million dollars?"
"No, I do not," replied Doctor Alvin. "I believe all of you are wrong.
The Colonel is in Australia. His business relations are doubtless with
English houses. And in my opinion he means pounds, English money--a
million pounds sterling."
"Why, that would make five million dollars!" exclaimed Gertrude.
"Twenty million marks!" ejaculated Captain Bisherig.
"Twenty-five million francs!" echoed Captain Malepeste.
"That is what it would be," assented Doctor Alvin, "and that is what the
Colonel means, I feel sure. Nor am I surprised. Norris is a man of
remarkable business instincts. He is as cool and collected on the floor
of a stock exchange as he was on the field of battle. Then he had every
incentive to make a fortune. And he has made one, take my word for it."
"Nom d'une pipe!" exclaimed Captain Malepeste. "We will all go to
Paris, and buy a hotel on the Champs-Elysees!"
"We will do no such thing," objected Captain Bisherig. "Your modern
Babylon is no place for respectable folks to live in."
Captain Malepeste retorted:
"Well, if you think we should be willing to put up with more than one
'Dutchman,' and live in Germany--God forbid!"
Captain Bisherig and Captain Malepeste retired to the Music Room that
they might settle with swords the question of the respective merits of
Germany and France. Gertrude followed in the capacity of second and
surgeon to both men. Susan and Doctor Alvin remained alone. Catherine
had retired to her bedroom.
"So papa is coming back with a fortune," observed Dr. Alvin,
affectionately. "And ... and what is our Susie going to do--give a
ball, and invite the Governor of Kentucky?"
"If father comes back with a million, I am going somewhere to study
art," replied Susan.
The reply came so quickly that Dr. Alvin was startled.
Susan had fought out her battles alone. Unperceived she had crossed
the threshold of womanhood.