BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE
One bright winter morning, the twenty-ninth day of December, Anno Domini
1879, I was journeying from Lebanon, Indiana, where I had sojourned
Sunday, to Indianapolis. I did not see the famous cedars, and I supposed
they had been used up for lead-pencils, and moth-proof chests, and
relics, and souvenirs; for Lebanon is right in the heart of the holy
land. That part of Indiana was settled by Second Adventists, and they
have sprinkled goodly names all over their heritage. As the train
clattered along, stopping at every station to trade off some people who
were tired of traveling for some other people who were tired of staying
at home, I got out my writing-pad, pointed a pencil, and wondered what
manner of breakfast I would be able to serve for the ever hungry
"Hawkeye" next morning.
I was beginning to think I would have to disguise some "left-overs"
under a new name, as the thrifty housekeeper knows how to do, when my
colleague, my faithful yoke-fellow, who has many a time found for me a
spring of water in the desert place--the Brakeman, came down the aisle
of the car. He glanced at the tablet and pencil as I would look at his
lantern, put my right hand into a cordial compress that abode with my
fingers for ten minutes after he went away, and seating himself easily
on the arm of the seat, put the semaphore all right for me by saying:
"Say, I went to church yesterday."
"Good boy," I said, "and what church did you attend?"
"Guess," was his reply.
"Some Union Mission chapel?" I ventured.
"N-no," he said, "I don't care to run on these branch roads very much. I
don't get a chance to go to church every Sunday, and when I can go, I
like to run on the main line, where your trip is regular, and you make
schedule time, and don't have to wait on connections. I don't care to
run on a branch. Good enough, I reckon, but I don't like it."
"Episcopal?" I guessed.
"Limited express!" he said, "all parlor cars, vestibuled, and two
dollars extra for a seat; fast time, and only stop at the big stations.
Elegant line, but too rich for a brakeman. All the trainmen in uniform;
conductor's punch and lanterns silver-plated; train-boys fenced up by
themselves and not allowed to offer anything but music. Passengers talk
back at the conductor. Trips scheduled through the whole year, so when
you get aboard you know just where you're going and how long it will
take you. Most systematic road in the country and has a mighty nice
class of travel. Never hear of a receiver appointed on that line. But I
didn't ride in the parlor car yesterday."
"Universalist?" I suggested.
"Broad gauge," the Brakeman chuckled; "does too much complimentary
business to be prosperous. Everybody travels on a pass. Conductor
doesn't get a cash fare once in fifty miles. Stops at all way-stations
and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking-car allowed on
the train because the company doesn't own enough brimstone to head a
match. Train orders are rather vague, though; and I've noticed the
trainmen don't get along very well with the passengers. No, I didn't go
on the broad gauge, though I have some good friends on that road who are
the best people in the world. Been running on it all their lives."
"Presbyterian?" I hinted.
"Narrow gauge, eh?" said the Brakeman; "pretty track; straight as a
rule; tunnel right through the heart of a mountain rather than go around
it; spirit level grade; strict rules, too; passengers have to show their
tickets before they get on the train; cars a little bit narrow for
sleepers; have to sit one in a seat and no room in the aisle to dance.
No stop-over tickets allowed; passenger must go straight through to the
station he's ticketed for, or stay off the car. When the car's full,
gates are shut; cars built at the shops to hold just so many, and no
more allowed on. That road is run right up to the rules and you don't
often hear of an accident on it. Had a head-on collision at Schenectady
union station and run over a weak bridge at Cincinnati, not many years
ago, but nobody hurt, and no passengers lost. Great road."
"May be you rode with the Agnostics?" I tried.
The Brakeman shook his head emphatically.
"Scrub road," he said, "dirt road-bed and no ballast; no time-card, and
no train dispatcher. All trains run wild and every engineer makes his
own time, just as he pleases. A sort of 'smoke-if-you-want-to' road. Too
many side tracks; every switch wide open all the time, switchman sound
asleep and the target-lamp dead out. Get on where you please and get off
when you want. Don't have to show your tickets, and the conductor has no
authority to collect fare. No, sir; I was offered a pass, but I don't
like the line. I don't care to travel over a road that has no terminus.
"Do you know, I asked a division superintendent where his road run to,
and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked him if the general
superintendent could tell me, and he said he didn't believe they had a
general superintendent, and if they had, he didn't know any more about
the road than the passengers did. I asked him who he reported to, and he
said, 'Nobody.' I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he
said he didn't take no orders from any living man or dead ghost. And
when I asked the engineer who gave him orders, he said he'd just like to
see any man on this planet try to give him orders, black-and-white or
verbal; he said he'd run that train to suit himself or he'd run it into
the ditch. Now, you see, I'm not much of a theologian, but I'm a good
deal of a railroad man, and I don't want to run on a road that has no
schedule, makes no time, has no connections, starts anywhere and runs
nowhere, and has neither signal man, train dispatcher or superintendent.
Might be all right, but I've railroaded too long to understand it."
"Did you try the Methodist?"
"Now you're shoutin'!" he cried with enthusiasm; "that's the hummer!
Fast time and crowds of passengers! Engines carry a power of steam, and
don't you forget it. Steam-gauge shows a hundred and enough all the
time. Lively train crews, too. When the conductor shouts 'All
a-b-o-a-r-d!' you can hear him to the next hallelujah station. Every
train lamp shines like a head-light. Stop-over privileges on all
tickets; passenger can drop off the train any time he pleases, do the
station a couple of days and hop on to the next revival train that comes
thundering along with an evangelist at the throttle. Good, whole-souled,
companionable conductors; ain't a road on earth that makes the
passengers feel more at home. No passes issued on any account;
everybody pays full traffic rate for his own ticket. Safe road, too;
well equipped; Wesleyanhouse air brakes on every train. It's a road I'm
fond of, but I didn't begin this week's run with it."
I began to feel that I was running ashore; I tried one more lead:
"May be you went with the Baptists?"
"Ah, ha!" he shouted, "now you're on the Shore line! River Road, eh?
Beautiful curves, lines of grace at every bend and sweep of the river;
all steel rail and rock ballast; single track, and not a siding from the
round-house to the terminus. Takes a heap of water to run it, though;
double tanks at every station, and there isn't an engine in the shops
that can run a mile or pull a pound with less than two gauges. Runs
through a lovely country--river on one side and the hills on the other;
and it's a steady climb, up grade all the way until the run ends where
the river begins, at the fountain head. Yes, sir, I'll take the River
Road every time for a safe trip, sure connections, good time, and no
dust blowing in when you open a window. And yesterday morning, when the
conductor came around taking up fares with a little basket punch, I
didn't ask him to pass me; I paid my fare like a little
Jonah--twenty-five cents for a ninety-minute run, with a concert by the
passengers thrown in. I tell you what it is, Pilgrim, never mind your
baggage, you just secure your passage on the River Road if you want to
go to--"
But just here the long whistle announced a station, and the Brakeman
hurried to the door, shouting--
"Zions-VILLE! ZIONS-ville! All out for Zionsville! This train makes no
stops between here and Indianapolis!"
HOW MR. TERRAPIN LOST HIS BEARD
BY ANNE VIRGINIA CULBERTSON
The "cook-house" stood at some little distance from the "big house," and
every evening after supper it was full of light and noise and laughter.
The light came from the fire on the huge hearth, above which hung the
crane and the great iron pots which Eliza, the cook, declared were
indispensable in the practice of her art. To be sure, there was a
cook-stove, but 'Liza was wedded to old ways and maintained there was
nothing "stove cooked" that could hope to rival the rich and nutty
flavor of ash cake, or greens "b'iled slow an' long over de ha'th, wid a
piece er bacon in de pot."
The noise and laughter came from a circle of dusky and admiring friends,
for Aunt 'Liza was a great favorite with everybody on the plantation,
and though hunchbacked and homely, had, nevertheless, had her pick, as
she was fond of boasting, of the likeliest looking men on the place; and
though she had been twice wedded and twice widowed, aspirants were not
wanting for the position now vacant for a third time. Indeed, not long
before, a member of the family, on going to the cook-house to see why
dinner was so late, had discovered one Sam, the burly young ox-cart
driver, on his knees, pleading very earnestly with the elderly and
humpbacked little cook, while dinner simmered on and on, unnoticed and
forgotten. When remonstrated with she said that she was "'bleeged ter
have co'tin' times ez well ez de res' er folks," and intimated that in
affairs of the heart these things were apt to happen at any time or
place, and that if a gentleman chose an inopportune moment "'twan't her
fault," and no one could, with any show of reason, expect her not to pay
attention to him. She ruled everybody, her white folks included, though
just how she did it no one could say, unless she was one of those
commanding spirits and born leaders who sometimes appear even in the
humblest walks of life. It is possible that her uncommonly strong will
compelled the affections of her male admirers, but it is also possible
that she condescended to flatter, and it is certain that she fed them
well.
One night, between supper and bedtime, the children heard the sound of a
banjo proceeding from the cook-house. They had never ventured into Aunt
'Liza's domain before, but the plinketty-plunk of the banjo, the sound
of patting and the thud of feet keeping time to the music drew them
irresistibly. Aunt Nancy was there, in the circle about the embers, as
was also her old-time foe, Aunt 'Phrony, and the banjo was in the hands
of Tim, a plow-boy, celebrated as being the best picker for miles
around. Lastly, there were Aunt 'Liza and her latest conquest, Sam,
whose hopes she could not have entirely quenched or he would not have
beamed so complacently on the assembled company.
There was a hush as the three little heads appeared in the doorway, but
the children begged them to go on, and so Tim picked away for dear life
and Sam did a wonderful double-shuffle with the pigeon-wing thrown in.
Then Tim sang a plantation song about "Cindy Ann" that ran something
like this:
_I'se gwine down ter Richmond,
I'll tell you w'at hit's for:
I'se gwine down ter Richmond,
Fer ter try an' end dis war._
_Refrain: An'-a you good-by, Cindy, Cindy,
Good-by, Cindy Ann;
An'-a you good-by, Cindy, Cindy,
I'se gwine ter Rappahan._
_I oon ma'y a po' gal,
I'll tell de reason w'y:
Her neck so long an' skinny
I'se 'feared she nuver die._
_Refrain._
_I oon ma'y a rich gal,
I'll tell de reason w'y:
Bekase she dip so much snuff
Her mouf is nuver dry._
_Refrain._
_I ru'rr ma'y a young gal,
A apple in her han',
Dan ter ma'y a widdy
Wid a house an' a lot er lan'._
_Refrain._
At the reference to a "widdy" he winked at the others and looked
significantly at Sam and Aunt 'Liza. Then he declared it was the turn of
the ladies to amuse the gentlemen. Aunt Nancy and Aunt 'Phrony cried,
"Hysh! Go 'way, man! W'at ken we-all do? Done too ol' fer foolishness;
leave dat ter de gals!" But 'Liza was not inclined to leave the
entertainment of gentlemen to "gals," whom she declared to be, for the
most part, "wu'fless trunnel-baid trash."
"Come, come, Sis' 'Phrony, an' you, too, Sis' Nancy," said she, "you
knows dar ain' nu'rr pusson on de place kin beat you bofe in der marter
uv tellin' tales. I ain' nuver have de knack myse'f, but I knows a good
tale w'en I years hit, an' I bin gittin' myse'f fixed fer one uver sence
you comed in."
The children added their petitions, seconded by Tim and Sam. Aunt Nancy
looked as if she were feeling around in the dusk of half-forgotten
things for a dimly remembered story, perceiving which the nimbler-witted
Aunt 'Phrony made haste to say that she believed she knew a story which
might please the company if they were not too hard to suit. They
politely protested that such was far from being the case, whereupon she
began the story of how the Terrapin lost his beard.
"Um-umph!" snorted Aunt Nancy, "who uver year tell uv a tarr'pin wid a
by'ud!"
"Look-a-yer, ooman," said 'Phrony, "who tellin' dis, me er you? You
s'pose I'se talkin' 'bout de li'l ol' no-kyount tarr'pins dey has dese
days? Naw, suh! I'se tellin' 'bout de ol' time Tarr'pin whar wuz a gre't
chieft an' a big fighter, an' w'ensomuver tu'rr creeturs come roun' an'
try ter pay him back, he jes' drord his haid in his shell an' dar he
wuz. Dish yer ain' no ol' nigger tale, neener, dish yer a Injun tale
whar my daddy done tol' me w'en I wan't no bigger'n Miss Janey. He say
dat sidesen de by'ud, Tarr'pin had big wattles hangin' down beneaf his
chin, jes' lak de tukkey-gobblers has dese days. Him an' Mistah Wi'yum
Wil'-tukkey wuz mighty good fren's dem times, an' Tukkey he thought
Tarr'pin wuz a monst'ous good-lookin' man. He useter mek gre't 'miration
an' say, 'Mistah Tarry-long Tarr'pin, you sut'n'y is a harnsum man. Dar
ain' nu'rr creetur in dese parts got such a by'ud an' wattles ez w'at
you is.'
"Den Tarr'pin he'd stroke down de by'ud an' swell out de wattles an'
say, 'Sho! sho! Mistah Tukkey, you done praise dese yer heap mo'n w'at
dey is wuf,' but all de same he wuz might'ly please', fer dar's nuttin'
lak a li'l bit er flatt'ry fer ilin' up de j'ints an' mekin' folks
limbersome in der feelin's.
"Tukkey git ter thinkin' so much 'bout de by'ud an' de wattles dat seem
ter him ez ef he kain't git long no-hows lessen he have some fer
hisse'f, 'kase in dem days de gobblers ain' have none. He study an' he
study, but he kain't see whar he kin git 'em, an' de mo' he study de mo'
he hone atter 'em. Las' he git so sharp set atter 'em dat he ain' kyare
how he git 'em, jes' so he git 'em, an' den he mek up his min' he gwine
tek 'em 'way f'um Tarr'pin. So one day w'en he met up wid him in de road
he stop him an' bob his haid an' mek his manners mighty p'litely, an' he
say, sezee, 'Mawnin', Mistah Tarry-long, mawnin'. How you come on dis
day? I ain' hatter ax you, dough, 'kase you done look so sprucy wid yo'
by'ud all comb' out an' yo' wattles puff' up. I wish, suh, you lemme
putt 'em on fer a minnit, so's't I kin see ef I becomes 'em ez good ez
w'at you does.'
"Ol' man Tarr'pin mighty easy-goin' an' commodatin', so he say, 'W'y,
sut'n'y, Mistah Tukkey, you kin tek 'em an' welcome fer a w'iles.' So
Tukkey he putts 'em on an' moseys down ter de branch ter look at hisse'f
in de water. 'Whoo-ee!' sezee ter hisse'f, 'ain' I de caution in dese
yer fixin's! I'se saw'y fer de gals now, I sut'n'y is, 'kase w'at wid my
shape an' dish yer by'ud an' wattles, dar gwine be some sho'-'nuff
heart-smashin' roun' dese diggin's, you year me sesso!'
"Den he go struttin' back, shakin' de by'ud an' swellin' put de wattles
an' jes' mo'n steppin' high an' prancin' w'ile he sing:
_'Cle'r outen de way fer ol' Dan Tucker,
You'se too late ter git yo' supper.'_
"Den he say, sezee, 'Mistah Tarr'pin, please, suh, ter lemme keep dese
yer? I b'lieve I becomes 'em mo'n w'at you does, 'kase my neck so long
an' thin seem lak I needs 'em ter set hit off mo'n w'at you does wid dat
shawt li'l neck er yo'n whar you keeps tuck 'way in yo' shell half de
time, anyways. Sidesen dat, you is sech a runt dat you g'long draggin'
de by'ud on de groun', an' fus' news you know hits 'bleeged ter be wo'
out. You bes' lemme have hit, 'kase I kin tek good kyare uv hit.'
"Den Tarr'pin say, sezee, 'I lak ter 'commodate you, Mistah Tukkey, but
I ain' see how I kin. I done got so use ter runnin' my fingers thu de
by'ud an' spittin' over hit w'en I'se settin' roun' thinkin' er talkin'
dat I dunno how I kin do widout hit, an' I kain't git long, no-how,
widout swellin' up de wattles w'en I git tetched in my feelin's. Sidesen
dat, I kin tek kyare er de by'ud, ef I _is_ a runt; I bin doin' it a
good w'ile, an' she ain' wo' out yit. So please, suh, ter han' me over
my fixin's.'
"'Not w'iles I got any wind lef' in me fer runnin',' sez de Tukkey,
sezee, an' wid dat he went a-scootin', ol' man Tarr'pin atter him,
hot-foot. Dey went scrabblin' up de mountains an' down de mountains, an'
'twuz pull Dick, pull devil, fer a w'ile. Dey kain't neener one uv 'em
climb up ve'y fas', but w'en dey git ter de top, Tukkey he fly down an'
Tarr'pin he jes' natchully turn over an' roll down. But Tukkey git de
start an' keep hit. W'en Tarr'pin roll to de bottom uv a mountain den
he'd see Tukkey at de top er de nex' one. Dey kep' hit up dis-a-way
'cross fo' ridges, an' las' Tarr'pin he plumb wo' out an' he see he
wan't gwine ketch up at dat rate, so he gin up fer dat day. Den he go
an' hunt up de cunjerers an' ax 'em fer ter he'p him. He say, 'Y'all
know dat by'ud an' wattles er mine? Well, I done loan 'em to Mistah
Wi'yum Wil'-tukkey, 'kase he wuz my fren' an' he done ax me to. An' now
he turn out ter be no-kyount trash, an' w'at I gwine do? You bin knowin'
I is a slow man, an' if I kain't git some he'p, I hatter say good-by
by'ud an' wattles.'"
"What are 'cunjerers,' Aunt 'Phrony?" said Ned.
"Well now, honey," said she, "I dunno ez I kin jes' rightly tell you,
but deys w'at de Injuns calls 'medincin'-men,' an' dey doctors de sick
folks an' he'ps de hunters ter git game an' de gals ter git beaux, an'
putts spells on folks an' mek 'em do jes' 'bout w'at dey want 'em to.
An' so dese yer cunjerers dey goes off by derse'fs an' has a confab an'
den dey come back an' tell Mistah Tarr'pin dat dey reckon dey done fix
Mistah Tukkey dis time.
"'W'at you done wid him?' sezee.
"'We ain' ketch 'im,' dey ses, 'we lef' dat fer you, dat ain' ow'
bizness, but we done fix him up so't you kin do de ketchin' yo'se'f.'
"'W'at has you done to him, den?' sezee.
"'Son', dey ses, 'we done putt a lot er li'l bones in his laigs, an' dat
gwine slow him up might'ly, an' we 'pends on you ter do de res', 'kase
we knows dat you is a gre't chieft.'
"Den Tarr'pin amble long 'bout his bizness an' neener stop ner res'
ontwel he met up wid Tukkey onct mo'. He ax fer his by'ud an' wattles
ag'in, but Tukkey jes' turnt an' stept out f'um dat, Tarr'pin atter him.
But seem lak de cunjerers thought Mistah Tarr'pin wuz faster'n w'at he
wuz, er dat Mistah Tukkey 'z slower'n w'at _he_ wuz, 'kase Tarr'pin ain'
nuver ketch up wid him yit, an' w'ats mo', de tarr'pins is still doin'
widout by'uds an' wattles an' de gobblers is still wearin' 'em an'
swellin' roun' showin' off ter de gals, steppin' ez high ez ef dem li'l
bones w'at de cunjerers putt dar wan't still in der laigs, an' struttin'
lak dey wuz sayin' ter ev'y pusson dey meets:
_'Cle'r outen de way fer ol' Dan Tucker,
You'se too late ter git yo' supper.'"_
THE CRITIC
BY WILLIAM J. LAMPTON
Behold
The Critic, bold and cold,
Who sits in judgment on
The twilight and the dawn
Of literature,
And, eminently sure,
Informs his age
What printed page
Is destined to be great.
His word is Fate,
And what he writes
Is greater far
Than all the books
He writes of are.
His pen
Is dipped in boom
Or doom;
And when
He says one book is rot,
And that another's not,
That ends it. He
Is pure infallibility,
And any book he judges must
Be blessed or cussed
By all mankind,
Except the blind
Who will not see
The master's modest mastery.
His fiat stands
Against the uplifted hands
Of thousands who protest
And buy the books
That they like best;
But what of that?
He knows where he is at,
And they don't. And why
Shouldn't he be high
Above them as the clouds
Are high above the brooks,
For God, He made the Critic,
And man, he makes the books.
See?
Gee whiz,
What a puissant potentate the Critic is.
THE ASSOCIATED WIDOWS
BY KATHARINE M. ROOF
The confirmed bachelor sat apart, fairly submerged by a sea of Sunday
papers; yet a peripheral consciousness of the ladies' presence was
revealed in his embryonic smile.
He folded over a voluminous sheet containing an account of the latest
murder, and glanced at a half-page picture, labeled, "The Scene of the
Crime."
"Was there ever yet a woman that could keep a secret," he demanded,
apparently of the newspaper. "Now, if this poor fellow had only kept his
little plans to himself--but, of course, he had to go and tell some
woman."
"Looks like the man didn't know how to keep his secret that time,"
returned Mrs. Pendleton with a smile calculated to soften harsh
judgments against her sex.
"There are some secrets woman can keep," observed Elsie Howard. Her gaze
happened to rest upon Mrs. Pendleton's golden hair.
"For instance," demanded the confirmed bachelor. (His name was Barlow.)
"Oh--her age for one thing." Elsie withdrew her observant short-sighted
eyes from Mrs. Pendleton's crowning glory, and a smile barely touched
the corners of her expressively inexpressive mouth. Mrs. Pendleton
glanced up, faintly suspicious of that last remark.
Mr. Barlow laughed uproariously. In the two years that he had been a
"guest" in Mrs. Howard's boarding-house he had come to regard Miss Elsie
as a wit, and it was his habit--like the Italians at the opera--to give
his applause before the closing phrases were delivered.
"I guess that's right. You hit it that time. That's one secret a woman
can keep." He chuckled appreciatively.
Mrs. Pendleton laughed less spontaneously than usual and said, "It
certainly was a dangerous subject," that "she had been looking for
silver hairs amongst the gold herself lately." And again Elsie's eyes
were attracted to the hairs under discussion. For three months now she
had questioned that hair. At night it seemed above reproach in its
infantile fairness, but in the crude unkind daylight there was a garish
insistence about it that troubled the eye.
At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Hilary came in with her bonnet
on. She glanced around with frigid greeting.
"So I'm not late to dinner after all. I had thought you would be at
table. The tram was so slow I was sorry I had not walked and saved the
fare." She spoke with an irrational rising and falling of syllables that
at once proclaimed her nationality. She was a short, compact little
woman with rosy cheeks, abundant hair and a small tight mouth. Mrs.
Hilary was a miniature painter by choice and a wife and mother by
accident. She was subject to lapses in which she unquestionably forgot
the twins' existence. She recalled them suddenly now.
"Has any one seen Gladys and Gwendolen? Dear, dear, I wonder where they
are. They wouldn't go to church with me. Those children are such a
responsibility."
"But they are such happy children," said gentle little Mrs. Howard, who
had come in at the beginning of this speech. In her heart Mrs. Howard
dreaded the long-legged, all-pervasive twins, but she pitied the
widowed and impoverished little artist. "So sad," she was wont to say
to her intimates in describing her lodger, "a young widow left all alone
in a foreign country."
"But one would hardly call America a foreign country to an
Englishwoman," one friend had interpolated at this point.
"Yes, I know," Mrs. Howard had acknowledged, "but she _seems_ foreign.
Her husband was an American, I believe, and he evidently left her with
almost nothing. He must have been very unkind to her, she has such a
dislike of Americans. She wasn't able to give the regular price for the
rooms, but I couldn't refuse her--I felt so sorry for her."