WHILE THE EVIL DAYS COME NOT
September was horribly near. And worse,--there was coming that 5th day
of September when a certain bell should ring again, and we trudge up
Elm Street, fidgeting uneasily about in our new "fall" clothes.
The spectre of that man, that arithmetic-man, whose name during the
days of vacation it were almost profanation to speak, arose before us
with a hateful leer.
The nights and mornings had grown cooler, and where daisies and
buttercups had blossomed at the roadside, the golden-rod and
frost-flowers had it all their own way.
But one last adventure we must have, one last protest in the name
of liberty. And so we organized, on the third day of September, an
extensive expedition for the morrow, and I went to spend the night with
Ed Mason, to be ready to make an early start.
I fell asleep, wondering if we might not discover some unknown
countries during the next day. When I woke, a small, dim figure stood
beside me, repeating the words, "It's half-past four."
It took me a number of seconds to comprehend their meaning, and to
recognize their speaker. Then I knew, of course,--this was the hour of
rising for the great expedition into the backwoods, and here was Ed
Mason telling me of that fact.
By day, Mason stalked the earth, compelling and terrible, in all the
majesty of nine years. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and
none looked upon him without reverence. With his own strong right
arm he had slain the musk-rat in its lair, and he had explored the
fastnesses of "Second Woods,"--which, as everybody knew, were at least
three-quarters of a mile beyond "First Woods."
But now, in the chilly twilight before dawn, and clad in a single
white garment, which hung from his shoulders angelwise, there lacked
something of the awe which usually invested the Terror of the
Neighborhood.
Moreover, the nearly complete darkness which surrounded us, and eight
solid hours of sleep from which I had just emerged, tended to make me
slow of understanding. Only the afternoon before, and the world which
had stretched beyond the borders of the town lay at our feet, awaiting
our conquering footsteps. Now, the world seemed not only cold and
dark, but immeasurably vast, and we no longer a pair of relentless
Columbuses. Rather small, in fact, we seemed, and not wholly equipped
to tame the jungle, and bring the desert to acknowledge its masters.
However, I said nothing of this to Ed Mason, but arose and dressed. He
was making ready in another room, and in a few minutes we tiptoed down
the stairs. At five o'clock we were to meet other bold travellers at a
rendezvous near the frog pond, and there was no time to be lost.
Luncheons, a day's supply of food, had been prepared and put in boxes
the evening before.
With these under our arms, we hurried out into the faint light and
through the side yard, our spirits and our clothes a trifle dampened
on the way, by means of a glass of water thoughtfully poured upon us
from a window by Ed's sister Florence. This attention was by way
of reciprocating our act of the previous week, when we had locked
her for a while in the hen-house,--a bit of humor which we had long
ago forgotten, but which, it appeared, she still held in lively
recollection.
As we approached the pond, three other personages came into sight.
These were Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Joe Carter. Charley Carter
had been one of the organizers of the expedition, but a too intimate
association with Mr. Hawkins's Bartlett pear tree and the fruit
thereof, late on the previous afternoon, had rendered his absence
unavoidable.
From his elder brother we gathered that Charles had passed the darkling
hours in a manner not altogether agreeable, and that his parents, and
even Dr. Macey, had been in consultation over the matter. Indeed, it
was a narrow escape for Joe that he was not made to suffer vicarious
punishment, and be kept at home on this day of days, but luckily he had
been able to prove an alibi.
Peter Bailey would not accompany us.
This was not on account of illness, but, as we had all been made
aware, because he disapproved of our methods. It was absurd, he had
pointed out, to go on such an excursion without a compass. The military
instinct which already made Peter regard himself as a future ornament
to the United States Army, and which is doubtless of supreme value
to him to-day in a stock-broker's office,--this instinct demanded a
compass in order to find our path through the wilds.
None of us had a compass, and Peter's was broken, and could not be
replaced until his birthday,--six months hence. We must either
postpone our trip for six months or go without Peter. He would not
trust himself so far from civilization unless at any moment he might
satisfy his passion for knowing where lay the north.
Some little delicacy made us refrain from suggesting that at the
farthest point which we should probably reach, the spires of most of
the churches in town would undoubtedly be visible, and that we might
take our bearings from these.
Jimmy Toppan, then, as now, a navigator of deep seas, was one on whom
the compass argument had made a profound impression. He described an
ingenious but complicated recipe (which had once proved the salvation
of certain mariners) whereby the hands of a watch,--if directed toward
the sun, or away from the sun, I forget which, at noon, might serve in
place of the magnetic needle.
But, as Rob Currier observed, we might be hopelessly lost long before
noon, and Ed Mason supplemented this gloomy prophecy by recalling the
fact that Peter Bailey's Waterbury watch (the only time-piece amongst
us) was never going, through Peter's constant neglect to spend the
fifteen minutes necessary to wind it up.
The plan for the day had nearly fallen through, but we finally decided
to take our lives in our hands, and go without a compass. Peter, after
treating us to a few sarcasms on our unscientific venture, refused
absolutely to have anything to do with the trip. So there were but five
of us who set out at last.
On one thing we were determined. This was an all-day expedition. The
necessary amount of exploration, of hunting and fishing, could not be
accomplished in a few hours. We carried food for three full meals, and
our families had been warned that they must get along without us until
night began to gather in.
Ed Mason had a light air-rifle, and Joe Carter, by virtue of his
seniority and experience (he was thirteen that week) carried a small
but pernicious revolver. The rest of us had fishing-poles and lines,
and I was further equipped with a burning-glass,--without which no
one should venture into the wilderness, where matches may fail, and
camp-fires have to be kindled.
We had not gone far when the suitability of breakfast occurred to us.
We paused by the road,--not far from the brickyard (where Ed Mason had
once beaten off an attack by tramps) and ate one third of our provision.
Rob Currier's box proved to contain, among other things, a couple of
hard-boiled eggs, and to find a third part of two eggs was not only
puzzling, but unpleasantly reminiscent of Mr. Colburn's Arithmetic,--a
book which we did not care to have accompany us, even in spirit.
Rob solved the problem by eating both eggs then and there.
A short walk brought us to a spot on Little River where the fishing
was good, and here Jimmy Toppan and I promptly unlimbered our rods. Ed
Mason wandered across the meadow to look for a legendary owl, which he
claimed once to have seen in a tree near the centre of the meadow.
An owl-haunted tree it certainly looked, but at that hour of the day
there was little surprise that Ed saw nothing of him. The hunter soon
returned to the river bank, where Jimmy and I were pulling in hornpouts
at a great rate.
The others, scornful of hornpouts, had departed to a small pool,
farther up the river, where nobler game was reported. Before the end
of an hour they returned, bringing two very small and skinny pickerel.
Now your pickerel, be he ever so meagre, is of course a nobler fish
than your hornpout, and there is more glory in his capture. So Joe
Carter and Rob were fain to look with loathing upon the dozen fat
hornpouts which lay on the grass, and to consider that Jimmy and I had
spent our time in but a trifling fashion.
Not content with vaunting the superiority of their two dusty pickerel,
they reduced us to deeper humiliation by recounting their adventures.
Joe Carter had lost bait, hook, and float from his fishing tackle,
through the agency of the enormous turtle who had lived for many a year
under the bridge at the head of the pool, and Rob Currier had fallen
into the water and come out wet to the knees. So it was evident that
there was nothing for Jimmy and me but to hide our diminished heads.
We said little, but suggested that as the morning was apparently far
advanced, it would be well to have a swim and our midday meal. By the
railroad track,--a short cut, we reached the swimming place, Four
Rocks. It was probably the poorest swimming pool ever prescribed by
an iron tradition. Passing trains made it necessary modestly to seek
deeper water, and grazing cows threatened to devour our clothes; but
here, and at no other place, did every boy learn to swim.
Tradition is a tyrant; during the believing years it is the worst of
despots.
In a few minutes we were all in the water,--all except Rob Currier,
who, under threat of dire punishment, had been eternally charged by his
mother to keep out of the water until he was a complete master of the
art of swimming.
As he had not yet learned on land, he sat on the bank, threw pebbles at
the cows, and from time to time remarked monotonously: "Oh, come on!"
The process of dressing was slow,--the use of towels, or any serious
attempt to dry oneself, being tabooed as a sign of the most degrading
effeminacy. When we were ready to depart, the position of the sun, and
a hollow sensation in our interiors, showed beyond question that we
must once more draw upon our commissariat.
Guided by three gaunt poplars, we advanced to the Devil's Den,--an
ancient limestone quarry, which had some of the appearance, and many
of the advantages, of a natural cave. Curious mineral substances were
found there,--asbestos might be dug from the rock with a jack-knife,
and green veins of serpentine decorated the side of the cliff.
It was a recognized spot for picnics, and we should have scarcely
thought of eating our principal meal anywhere else. In the deepest
part of the cleft was an unwholesome-looking puddle into which dripped
the moisture from the roof of the cave. It was rather gloomy, and made
visitors lower their voices a little, until they were in the sunlight
once more.
We built a fire,--for what purpose it would be difficult to say, as
sandwiches, cake, and fruit do not need a great deal of cooking, and
the fish which we had captured had been left with old Mr. Harris, the
railroad-crossing tender, to be claimed on our return trip.
It was pleasant, although a trifle hot and smoky on a warm day, to sit
around a fire and refresh our wearied frames with food. Joe Carter had
a clay pipe, and after he had eaten, tried the experiment of smoking
dried leaves in it. He coughed a good deal, and did not seem to derive
that joy from the process which we had all heard arose from the use of
a pipe.
After a little time we set out once more, climbed to the top of Devil's
Pulpit, and then took the road toward the Devil's Basin. In that
region, the Devil seems to have had a large interest in the scenery.
The road is of the pleasantest, however. Here, before the snow has
hardly left the woods, the spring "peepers" sing insistently from
a little bog, while, a few weeks later, the gentle blossoms of the
hepatica emerge shyly from the dead leaves, and the anemone springs up
on the hillside.
Now, although the tide of summer ebbed, the woods were crammed with
things of interest. We investigated the Basin,--another deserted
quarry. We explored the edges of the bog, and stalked a flock of crows
who had gathered in the top of an oak. The afternoon passed at first
pleasantly, but finally with some tedium,--the day seemed interminably
long. Yet we grudged every moment, for we realized that the hours of
vacation were numbered.
We rambled about till we became aware that we were very tired, that the
day was waning, and that three or four long miles lay between us and
home.
So we hurried through our suppers, and started on the return trip. Joe
Carter walked a little in advance, calling out from time to time:--
"You fellers better hurry up, unless you want to camp all night in the
woods."
Then he would casually take out his revolver and look mysteriously
toward the deep undergrowth on each side of the road, as if to signify
that he could not hold himself responsible for what manner of thing
might beset us after the powers of darkness should be exalted.
We did not want to camp all night in the woods (Ed Mason and I had not
forgotten a certain experience!) and we hastened our steps.
When we reached Mr. Harris's little shanty, it was closed and locked,
and the old gentleman had gone,--whither we knew not. Our fish he had
kindly preserved for us in a pail of water. We gathered them up, and
hurried on.
We debated what was the exact hour, and both Ed Mason and Rob Currier
thought that sunset was close upon us. Ed remarked that he had seen one
or two bats fluttering about, as we came through the woods. Evidently
the creatures of the night were beginning to make their appearance.
Tired we were,--we knew that,--and a little moody at the thought of
approaching school. I had a small, sharp pebble in my shoe, which made
walking very painful. So I had to delay the party until I could rid
myself of it.
Finally we left the railroad track, and started on the home stretch
over the old turnpike. We felt more at ease now, since houses were in
plain sight, and the town distant only a matter of thirty minutes'
walking.
Here we met a man driving a sorrel horse in a wagon.
Joe Carter hailed him.
"Say, mister, do you know what time it is?" asked Joe.
The man pulled up the horse, and took a watch out of his pocket. He
looked at the dial, and then held the watch to his ear.
"Well," he remarked leisurely, "guess my watch has stopped again. But
I can tell yer pretty close. It was quarter to nine when I came by
Moulton's, an' that wa'n't more'n fifteen minutes ago. It's 'bout nine
o'clock now,--I guess you young fellers better be gettin' home pretty
quick, or you won't get no breakfast!"
"_What?_"
We all shouted at once.
The man looked at us bewildered.
"What are you talkin' about?" Joe Carter asked him; "quarter of
nine--in the evening?"
"Evening?" said the man; "you crazy? No,--quarter to nine in the
mornin', of course. What do you--oh! I see! Been spendin' the night in
the woods, an' got lost, ain't yer?"
"No," Joe replied; "we been out all day,--we started 'fore daylight
this morning, an' we thought it was night."
The man still stared, but gradually he began to grasp the situation.
His mouth slowly opened, a grin began to creep round to his ears, and
he cackled. Cackled offensively and long.
We could not stand that, and we hurried along the road. The man stood
up in his wagon, looking after us, and still uttering that idiotic
cackle.
"Well, we're a lot of numb-heads," remarked Rob Currier.
Apparently we all agreed, but no one said so. We stubbed along in the
dust, silent and ashamed. The fiasco had taken the life out of us. We
did not want to go back to the woods and we did not want to return
home. The jeers that might greet us there would be worse than the
laughter of the man in the wagon.
Out for an all-day expedition on the last day before school opened,
out for a grand exploration of the wild country,--and we had eaten all
three of our meals and come home at nine o'clock in the morning! What
were these bats and night-birds that we had seen? Where was the sunset
and all the rest of it? This last day of vacation to be spoiled--
Suddenly Joe Carter stopped in the middle of the road.
His mouth opened, and then a grin spread over his face.
"By Jings!" he shouted.
We stopped and gazed at him.
Then he began to jump about excitedly on one leg.
"Don't you see?" he cried.
"What? See what?"
"Why, don't you see? What do we care for that old hayseed in the wagon?
Or for any one? We've still got a whole day of vacation left!"
The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan
novels.
BY E. B. DEWING
OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES
_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
SOME OPINIONS OF THE WORK
"An acute study--acute at times to the point of painfulness--of a
phase of life especially aggressive in our own time, but peculiar to
no single period ... there is an underlying power in the book that
definitely conveys a promise of better things."--_New York Evening
Post._
"It is a remarkable story, with plenty of ingenuity in it, and some
startling developments. Any story so plainly out of the beaten path
deserves the attention of the reading public."--_Cleveland Plain
Dealer._
"'Other People's Houses' is a striking and absorbing study of
character, and is an effective introduction to a writer whose ability
will doubtless place her among the very few American novelists of
importance."--_New York Times._
BY MARY S. WATTS
THE LEGACY
_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"It is a good story and at the same time good literature. Its plot
is handled with a sure hand, its occasional touches of emotion are
genuine, its spirit is wholesome and buoyant. It belongs in the
select company of the best American novels."--_Record-Herald._
"In 'Nathan Burke' and in 'The Legacy,' Mrs. Watts has reached
a high-water mark in American fiction, has told two stories of
genuine Americanism. Every page shows her truly remarkable gift of
observation--observation shrewd but not unkind--and her power to
probe the hearts of weak and erring mortals. Those who would keep in
touch with the best product of story-telling in America must not miss
'The Legacy.'"--_New York Globe._
"It is a story exceptionally well told, reaching and maintaining a
rare pitch of interest."--_New York World._
"It is a masterful novel throughout, and places the writer in the
very highest rank of modern authors."--_Salt Lake Tribune._
MR. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S NOVELS
_Each, cloth, gilt tops and titles, $1.50_
A Modern Chronicle _Illustrated_
This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal
Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young
American woman. It is frankly a modern love story.
"The most thorough and artistic work the author has yet turned out. A
very interesting story and a faithful picture of character ... one that
will give rise to much discussion."--_New York Sun._
Mr. Crewe's Career _Illustrated_
"It is an honest and fair story.... It is very interesting; and the
heroine is a type of woman as fresh, original, and captivating as any
that has appeared in American novels for a long time past."--_The
Outlook._
The Celebrity _An Episode_
"No such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared
for years.... It is the purest, keenest fun."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
Richard Carvel _Illustrated_
"In breadth, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and rare
wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an
American romance."--_Chicago Tribune._
The Crossing _Illustrated_
"A thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting adventure and
sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in detail
and in spirit."--_The Dial._
The Crisis _Illustrated_
"A charming love story that never loses its interest.... The intense
political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown
understandingly."--_Evening Telegraph_, Philadelphia.
Coniston _Illustrated_
"A lighter, gayer spirit and a deeper, tenderer touch than Mr.
Churchill has ever achieved before.... One of the truest and finest
transcripts of modern American life thus far achieved in our
fiction."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
IMPORTANT FICTION
GERTRUDE ATHERTON'S
Tower of Ivory _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"The 'Tower of Ivory' provides the closest study of certain phases
of English high life at home and abroad that has been given us by
any novelist in a great many years. Mrs. Atherton has her readers
grappled to her soul by some of the most solid merits of the novelist
and these she repays generously."--_Chicago Evening Post._
CLARA E. LAUGHLIN'S
Just Folks _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"This work does for readers of fiction the very real service of
humanizing the slums."--_Philadelphia Press._
"A most readable story, and one that warms the heart toward
others."--_Christian Advocate_, New York.
MABEL O. WRIGHT'S
Princess Flower Hat _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"The tale is charming, the reading throughout is delightful, and no
lover of a garden will pass the book unnoticed."--_San Francisco
Call._
E. V. LUCAS'
Mr. Ingleside _Cloth, 12mo, $1.35 net_
"'Mr. Ingleside' is a literary man's novel. The story itself is
the least of Mr. Ingleside'; it is the way it is told, the keen
observation of men and things and life in general, the excellent
characterization, the drollery and whimsey that bring delight from
page to page.... It is rich with allusions and memories, ready with
knowledge of life, and quickened with a love for quirks and oddities
in character wherever they are to be found."--_Argus_, Albany, N.Y.
RICHARD WASHBURN CHILD'S
Jim Hands _Cloth, 12mo, $1.20 net_
"This is an excellent story. It treats of simple people, of a
noble-hearted girl who saw her duty, and of the man she loved. There
are scenes of real dramatic power. The interest is sustained. The
kind of book that works the heart chords every now and then."--_News
and Courier_, Charleston, S.C.
"Mr. Child gives us a novel of uncommon interest, but what marks it
at once for attention is its purely human quality, its knowledge of
the fundamental traits of men and women, its atmosphere of truth to
daily life."--_New York Tribune._
JAMES LANE ALLEN'S
The Doctor's Christmas Eve _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"Kentucky in its rural aspects and with its noble men and women forms
the scenery for this romance of quaintness and homeliness which
lovingly interprets the career of a country doctor who has lost faith
in life but not in ideals. Incidentally the author has interpreted
the new spirit of American childhood in its relation to the miracles
and legends and lore of other lands and older times, which have
through the centuries gathered about the great Christmas festival of
the Nativity."--_New York Times._
"What so many have so long hoped Mr. Allen would do he has
accomplished in this work, namely, a description of Kentucky and the
bluegrass farms as seen by a youngster."--_New York American._
MARY S. WATTS'
Nathan Burke _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"It is sometimes said that one of the best tests of a good novel, as
it is of a well-planned meal, is how you feel at the end. Are you
satisfied or do you wish that at some time the performance may be
repeated? When one is through with 'Nathan Burke,' one thinks, I'd
like to read it right over again."--_Columbia Dispatch._
WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE'S
A Certain Rich Man _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"This novel has a message for to-day, and for its brilliant character
drawing, and that gossipy desultory style of writing that stamps
Mr. White's literary work, will earn a high place in fiction. It is
good and clean and provides a vacation from the cares of the hour.
It resembles a Chinese play, because it begins with the hero's
boyhood, describes his long, busy life, and ends with his death.
Its tone is often religious, never flippant, and one of its best
assets is its glowing descriptions of the calm, serene beauties of
nature. Its moral is that a magnate never did any real good with
money."--_Oregonian_, Portland, Ore.
Mr. OWEN WISTER'S NOVELS
Members of the Family
_Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_
"Thrilling and unusual tales of life on the Western prairies.
Mr. Wister has shown himself a master in this class of
fiction."--_Critic._
The Virginian
_Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net_
"The vanished West is made to live again by Owen Wister in a manner
which makes his book easily the best that deals with the cowboy and
the cattle country.... It is picturesque, racy, and above all it is
original."--_The Philadelphia Press._
Lady Baltimore
_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"After cowboy stories innumerable, 'the Virginian' came as the last
and definite word on that romantic subject in our fiction. 'Lady
Baltimore' will serve in much the same way as the most subtly drawn
picture of the old-world dignity of the vanished South."--_The New
York Evening Mail._
Mr. EDEN PHILPOTTS' NOVELS
_Each, in decorated cloth, $1.50_
The American Prisoner _Illustrated_
"Intensely readable ... perfectly admirable in its elemental humor
and racy turns of speech."--_The Spectator_, London.
The Secret Woman
"There cannot be two opinions as to the interest and the power of
'The Secret Woman.' It is not only its author's masterpiece, but it
is far in advance of anything he has yet written--and that is to give
it higher praise than almost any other comparison with contemporary
fiction could afford."--_Times Saturday Review._
Knock at a Venture
Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and
humorous touches.
The Portreeve
PUBLISHED BY
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York
End of Project Gutenberg's The Believing Years, by Edmund Lester Pearson