piazza to think; she stayed in the house to think. She tried a corner of
the china-closet. She tried thinking in the cars, and lost her
pocket-book; she tried it in the garden, and walked into the strawberry
bed. In the house and out of the house, it seemed to be the same,--she
could not think of anything to think of. For many weeks she was seen
sitting on the sofa or in the window, and nobody disturbed her. "She is
thinking about her paper," the family would say, but she only knew that
she could not think of anything.
Agamemnon told her that many writers waited till the last moment, when
inspiration came, which was much finer than anything studied. Elizabeth
Eliza thought it would be terrible to wait till the last moment, if the
inspiration should not come! She might combine the two ways,--wait till
a few days before the last, and then sit down and write anyhow. This
would give a chance for inspiration, while she would not run the risk of
writing nothing.
She was much discouraged. Perhaps she had better give it up? But, no;
everybody wrote a paper: if not now, she would have to do it some time!
And at last the idea of a subject came to her! But it was as hard to
find a moment to write as to think. The morning was noisy, till the
little boys had gone to school; for they had begun again upon their
regular course, with the plan of taking up the study of cider in
October. And after the little boys had gone to school, now it was one
thing, now it was another,--the china-closet to be cleaned, or one of
the neighbors in to look at the sewing-machine. She tried after dinner,
but would fall asleep. She felt that evening would be the true time,
after the cares of the day were over.
The Peterkins had wire mosquito-nets all over the house,--at every door
and every window. They were as eager to keep out the flies as the
mosquitoes. The doors were all furnished with strong springs, that
pulled the doors to as soon as they were opened. The little boys had
practised running in and out of each door, and slamming it after them.
This made a good deal of noise, for they had gained great success in
making one door slam directly after another, and at times would keep up
a running volley of artillery, as they called it, with the slamming of
the doors. Mr. Peterkin, however, preferred it to flies.
So Elizabeth Eliza felt she would venture to write of a summer evening
with all the windows open.
She seated herself one evening in the library, between two large
kerosene lamps, with paper, pen, and ink before her. It was a beautiful
night, with the smell of the roses coming in through the mosquito-nets,
and just the faintest odor of kerosene by her side. She began upon her
work. But what was her dismay! She found herself immediately surrounded
with mosquitoes. They attacked her at every point. They fell upon her
hand as she moved it to the inkstand; they hovered, buzzing, over her
head; they planted themselves under the lace of her sleeve. If she moved
her left hand to frighten them off from one point, another band fixed
themselves upon her right hand. Not only did they flutter and sting, but
they sang in a heathenish manner, distracting her attention as she tried
to write, as she tried to waft them off. Nor was this all. Myriads of
June-bugs and millers hovered round, flung themselves into the lamps,
and made disagreeable funeral-pyres of themselves, tumbling noisily on
her paper in their last unpleasant agonies. Occasionally one darted with
a rush toward Elizabeth Eliza's head.
If there was anything Elizabeth Eliza had a terror of it was a June-bug.
She had heard that they had a tendency to get into the hair. One had
been caught in the hair of a friend of hers, who had long, luxuriant
hair. But the legs of the June-bug were caught in it like fishhooks, and
it had to be cut out, and the June-bug was only extricated by
sacrificing large masses of the flowing locks.
Elizabeth Eliza flung her handkerchief over her head. Could she
sacrifice what hair she had to the claims of literature? She gave a cry
of dismay.
The little boys rushed in a moment to the rescue. They flapped
newspapers, flung sofa-cushions; they offered to stand by her side with
fly-whisks, that she might be free to write. But the struggle was too
exciting for her, and the flying insects seemed to increase. Moths of
every description--large brown moths, small, delicate white
millers--whirled about her, while the irritating hum of the mosquito
kept on more than ever. Mr. Peterkin and the rest of the family came in
to inquire about the trouble. It was discovered that each of the little
boys had been standing in the opening of a wire door for some time,
watching to see when Elizabeth Eliza would have made her preparations
and would begin to write. Countless numbers of dorbugs and winged
creatures of every description had taken occasion to come in. It was
found that they were in every part of the house.
"We might open all the blinds and screens," suggested Agamemnon, "and
make a vigorous onslaught and drive them all out at once."
"I do believe there are more inside than out now," said Solomon John.
"The wire nets, of course," said Agamemnon, "keep them in now."
"We might go outside," proposed Solomon John, "and drive in all that are
left. Then to-morrow morning, when they are all torpid, kill them and
make collections of them."
Agamemnon had a tent which he had provided in case he should ever go to
the Adirondacks, and he proposed using it for the night. The little boys
were wild for this.
Mrs. Peterkin thought she and Elizabeth Eliza would prefer trying to
sleep in the house. But perhaps Elizabeth Eliza would go on with her
paper with more comfort out of doors.
A student's lamp was carried out, and she was established on the steps
of the back piazza, while screens were all carefully closed to prevent
the mosquitoes and insects from flying out. But it was no use. There
were outside still swarms of winged creatures that plunged themselves
about her, and she had not been there long before a huge miller flung
himself into the lamp and put it out. She gave up for the evening.
Still the paper went on. "How fortunate," exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza,
"that I did not put it off till the last evening!" Having once begun,
she persevered in it at every odd moment of the day. Agamemnon presented
her with a volume of "Synonymes," which was a great service to her. She
read her paper, in its various stages, to Agamemnon first, for his
criticism, then to her father in the library, then to Mr. and Mrs.
Peterkin together, next to Solomon John, and afterward to the whole
family assembled. She was almost glad that the lady from Philadelphia
was not in town, as she wished it to be her own unaided production. She
declined all invitations for the week before the night of the Club, and
on the very day she kept her room with _eau sucrée_, that she might save
her voice. Solomon John provided her with Brown's Bronchial Troches when
the evening came, and Mrs. Peterkin advised a handkerchief over her
head, in case of June-bugs.
It was, however, a cool night. Agamemnon escorted her to the house.
The Club met at Ann Maria Bromwick's. No gentlemen were admitted to the
regular meetings. There were what Solomon John called "occasional annual
meetings," to which they were invited, when all the choicest papers of
the year were re-read.
Elizabeth Eliza was placed at the head of the room, at a small table,
with a brilliant gas-jet on one side. It was so cool the windows could
be closed. Mrs. Peterkin, as a guest, sat in the front row.
This was her paper, as Elizabeth Eliza read it, for she frequently
inserted fresh expressions:--
THE SUN
It is impossible that much can be known about it. This is why we have
taken it up as a subject. We mean the sun that lights us by day and
leaves us by night. In the first place, it is so far off. No
measuring-tapes could reach it; and both the earth and the sun are
moving about us, that it would be difficult to adjust ladders to reach
it, if we could. Of course, people have written about it, and there are
those who have told us how many miles off it is. But it is a very large
number, with a great many figures in it; and though it is taught in most
if not all of our public schools, it is a chance if any one of the
scholars remembers exactly how much it is.
It is the same with its size. We can not, as we have said, reach it by
ladders to measure it; and if we did reach it, we should have no
measuring-tapes large enough, and those that shut up with springs are
difficult to use in a high places. We are told, it is true, in a great
many of the school-books, the size of the sun; but, again, very few of
those who have learned the number have been able to remember it after
they have recited it, even if they remembered it then. And almost all of
the scholars have lost their school-books, or have neglected to carry
them home, and so they are not able to refer to them,--I mean, after
leaving school. I must say that is the case with me, I should say with
us, though it was different. The older ones gave their school-books to
the younger ones, who took them back to school to lose them, or who have
destroyed them when there were no younger ones to go to school. I should
say there are such families. What I mean is, the fact that in some
families there are no younger children to take off the school-books. But
even then they are put away on upper shelves, in closets or in attics,
and seldom found if wanted,--if then, dusty.
Of course, we all know of a class of persons called astronomers, who
might be able to give us information on the subject in hand, and who
probably do furnish what information is found in school-books. It should
be observed, however, that these astronomers carry on their observations
always in the night. Now, it is well known that the sun does not shine
in the night. Indeed, that is one of the peculiarities of the night,
that there is no sun to light us, so we have to go to bed as long as
there is nothing else we can do without its light, unless we use lamps,
gas, or kerosene, which is very well for the evening, but would be
expensive all night long; the same with candles. How, then, can we
depend upon their statements, if not made from their own observation,--I
mean, if they never saw the sun?
We can not expect that astronomers should give us any valuable
information with regard to the sun, which they never see, their
occupation compelling them to be up at night. It is quite likely that
they never see it; for we should not expect them to sit up all day as
well as all night, as, under such circumstances, their lives would not
last long.
Indeed, we are told that their name is taken from the word _aster_,
which means "star;" the word is "aster--know--more." This, doubtless,
means that they know more about the stars than other things. We see,
therefore, that their knowledge is confined to the stars, and we can not
trust what they have to tell us of the sun.
There are other asters which should not be mixed up with these,--we mean
those growing by the wayside in the fall of the year. The astronomers,
from their nocturnal habits, can scarcely be acquainted with them; but
as it does not come within our province, we will not inquire.
We are left, then, to seek our own information about the sun. But we are
met with a difficulty. To know a thing, we must look at it. How can we
look at the sun? It is so very bright that our eyes are dazzled in
gazing upon it. We have to turn away, or they would be put out,--the
sight, I mean. It is true, we might use smoked glass, but that is apt to
come off on the nose. How, then, if we can not look at it, can we find
out about it? The noonday would seem to be the better hour, when it is
the sunniest; but, besides injuring the eyes, it is painful to the neck
to look up for a long time. It is easy to say that our examination of
this heavenly body should take place at sunrise, when we could look at
it more on a level, without having to endanger the spine. But how many
people are up at sunrise? Those who get up early do it because they are
compelled to, and have something else to do than look at the sun.
The milkman goes forth to carry the daily milk, the ice-man to leave
the daily ice. But either of these would be afraid of exposing their
vehicles to the heating orb of day,--the milkman afraid of turning the
milk, the ice-man timorous of melting his ice--and they probably avoid
those directions where they shall meet the sun's rays. The student, who
might inform us, has been burning the midnight oil. The student is not
in the mood to consider the early sun.
There remains to us the evening, also,--the leisure hour of the day.
But, alas! our houses are not built with an adaptation to this subject.
They are seldom made to look toward the sunset. A careful inquiry and
close observation, such as have been called for in preparation of this
paper, have developed the fact that not a single house in this town
faces the sunset! There may be windows looking that way, but in such a
case there is always a barn between. I can testify to this from personal
observations, because, with my brothers, we have walked through the
several streets of this town with note-books, carefully noting every
house looking upon the sunset, and have found none from which the sunset
could be studied. Sometimes it was the next house, sometimes a row of
houses, or its own wood-house, that stood in the way.
Of course, a study of the sun might be pursued out of doors. But in
summer, sunstroke would be likely to follow; in winter, neuralgia and
cold. And how could you consult your books, your dictionaries, your
encyclopædias? There seems to be no hour of the day for studying the
sun. You might go to the East to see it at its rising, or to the West to
gaze upon its setting, but--you don't.
Here Elizabeth Eliza came to a pause. She had written five different
endings, and had brought them all, thinking, when the moment came, she
would choose one of them. She was pausing to select one, and
inadvertently said, to close the phrase, "you don't." She had not meant
to use the expression, which she would not have thought sufficiently
imposing,--it dropped out unconsciously,--but it was received as a close
with rapturous applause.
She had read slowly, and now that the audience applauded at such a
length, she had time to feel she was much exhausted and glad of an end.
Why not stop there, though there were some pages more? Applause, too,
was heard from the outside. Some of the gentlemen had come,--Mr.
Peterkin, Agamemnon, and Solomon John, with others,--and demanded
admission.
"Since it is all over, let them in," said Ann Maria Bromwick.
Elizabeth Eliza assented, and rose to shake hands with her applauding
friends.
MR. STIVER'S HORSE
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY BAILEY
The other morning at breakfast Mrs. Perkins observed that Mr. Stiver, in
whose house we live, had been called away, and wanted to know if I would
see to his horse through the day.
I knew that Mr. Stiver owned a horse, because I occasionally saw him
drive out of the yard, and I saw the stable every day,--but what kind of
a horse I didn't know. I never went into the stable, for two reasons: in
the first place, I had no desire to; and, secondly, I didn't know as the
horse cared particularly for company.
I never took care of a horse in my life; and, had I been of a less
hopeful nature, the charge Mr. Stiver had left with me might have had a
very depressing effect; but I told Mrs. Perkins I would do it.
"You know how to take care of a horse, don't you?" said she.
I gave her a reassuring wink. In fact, I knew so little about it that I
didn't think it safe to converse more fluently than by winks.
After breakfast I seized a toothpick and walked out towards the stable.
There was nothing particular to do, as Stiver had given him his
breakfast, and I found him eating it; so I looked around. The horse
looked around, too, and stared pretty hard at me. There was but little
said on either side. I hunted up the location of the feed, and then sat
down on a peck measure and fell to studying the beast. There is a wide
difference in horses. Some of them will kick you over and never look
around to see what becomes of you. I don't like a disposition like that,
and I wondered if Stiver's horse was one of them.
When I came home at noon I went straight to the stable. The animal was
there all right. Stiver hadn't told me what to give him for dinner, and
I had not given the subject any thought; but I went to the oat-box and
filled the peck measure and sallied boldly up to the manger.
When he saw the oats he almost smiled; this pleased and amused him. I
emptied them into the trough, and left him above me to admire the way I
parted my hair behind. I just got my head up in time to save the whole
of it. He had his ears back, his mouth open, and looked as if he were on
the point of committing murder. I went out and filled the measure again,
and climbed up the side of the stall and emptied it on top of him. He
brought his head up so suddenly at this that I immediately got down,
letting go of everything to do it. I struck on the sharp edge of a
barrel, rolled over a couple of times, then disappeared under a
hay-cutter. The peck measure went down on the other side, and got
mysteriously tangled up in that animal's heels, and he went to work at
it, and then ensued the most dreadful noise I ever heard in all my life,
and I have been married eighteen years.
It did seem as if I never would get out from under that hay-cutter; and
all the while I was struggling and wrenching myself and the cutter
apart, that awful beast was kicking around in the stall, and making the
most appalling sound imaginable.
When I got out I found Mrs. Perkins at the door. She had heard the
racket, and had sped out to the stable, her only thought being of me and
three stove-lids which she had under her arm, and one of which she was
about to fire at the beast.
This made me mad.
"Go away, you unfortunate idiot!" I shouted: "do you want to knock my
brains out?" For I remembered seeing Mrs. Perkins sling a missile once
before, and that I nearly lost an eye by the operation, although
standing on the other side of the house at the time.
She retired at once. And at the same time the animal quieted down, but
there was nothing left of that peck measure, not even the maker's name.
I followed Mrs. Perkins into the house, and had her do me up, and then I
sat down in a chair and fell into a profound strain of meditation. After
a while I felt better, and went out to the stable again. The horse was
leaning against the stable stall, with eyes half closed, and appeared to
be very much engrossed in thought.
"Step off to the left," I said, rubbing his back.
He didn't step. I got the pitchfork and punched him in the leg with the
handle. He immediately raised up both hind legs at once, and that fork
flew out of my hands, and went rattling up against the timbers above,
and came down again in an instant, the end of the handle rapping me with
such force on the top of the head that I sat right down on the floor
under the impression that I was standing in front of a drug-store in the
evening. I went back to the house and got some more stuff on me. But I
couldn't keep away from that stable. I went out there again. The thought
struck me that what the horse wanted was exercise. If that thought had
been an empty glycerin-can, it would have saved a windfall of luck for
me.
But exercise would tone him down, and exercise him I should. I laughed
to myself to think how I would trounce him around the yard. I didn't
laugh again that afternoon. I got him unhitched, and then wondered how I
was to get him out of the stall without carrying him out. I pushed, but
he wouldn't budge. I stood looking at him in the face, thinking of
something to say, when he suddenly solved the difficulty by veering
about and plunging for the door. I followed, as a matter of course,
because I had a tight hold on the rope, and hit about every
partition-stud worth speaking of on that side of the barn. Mrs. Perkins
was at the window and saw us come out of the door. She subsequently
remarked that we came out skipping like two innocent children. The
skipping was entirely unintentional on my part. I felt as if I stood on
the verge of eternity. My legs may have skipped, but my mind was filled
with awe.
I took the animal out to exercise him. He exercised me before I got
through with it. He went around a few times in a circle; then he stopped
suddenly, spread out his forelegs, and looked at me. Then he leaned
forward a little, and hoisted both hind legs, and threw about two
coal-hods of mud over a line full of clothes Mrs. Perkins had just hung
out.
That excellent lady had taken a position at the window, and, whenever
the evolutions of the awful beast permitted, I caught a glance of her
features. She appeared to be very much interested in the proceedings;
but the instant that the mud flew, she disappeared from the window, and
a moment later she appeared on the stoop with a long poker in her hand,
and fire enough in her eye to heat it red-hot.
Just then Stiver's horse stood up on his hind legs and tried to hug me
with the others. This scared me. A horse never shows his strength to
such advantage as when he is coming down on you like a frantic
pile-driver. I instantly dodged, and the cold sweat fairly boiled out
of me.
It suddenly came over me that I had once figured in a similar position
years ago. My grandfather owned a little white horse that would get up
from a meal at Delmonico's to kick the President of the United States.
He sent me to the lot one day, and unhappily suggested that I often went
after that horse and suffered all kinds of defeat in getting him out of
the pasture, but I had never tried to ride him. Heaven knows I never
thought of it. I had my usual trouble with him that day. He tried to
jump over me, and push me down in a mud-hole, and finally got up on his
hind legs and came waltzing after me with facilities enough to convert
me into hash, but I turned and just made for that fence with all the
agony a prospect of instant death could crowd into me. If our candidate
for the Presidency had run one-half as well, there would be seventy-five
postmasters in Danbury to-day, instead of one.
I got him out finally, and then he was quiet enough, and I took him up
alongside the fence and got on him. He stopped an instant, one brief
instant, and then tore off down the road at a frightful speed. I lay
down on him and clasped my hands tightly around his neck, and thought of
my home. When we got to the stable I was confident he would stop, but he
didn't. He drove straight at the door. It was a low door, just high
enough to permit him to go in at lightning speed, but there was no room
for me. I saw if I struck that stable the struggle would be a very brief
one. I thought this all over in an instant, and then, spreading put my
arms and legs, emitted a scream, and the next moment I was bounding
about in the filth of that stable-yard. All this passed through my mind
as Stiver's horse went up into the air. It frightened Mrs. Perkins
dreadfully.
"Why, you old fool!" she said; "why don't you get rid of him?"
"How can I?" said I, in desperation.
"Why, there are a thousand ways," said she.
This is just like a woman. How differently a statesman would have
answered!
But I could think of only two ways to dispose of the beast. I could
either swallow him where he stood and then sit down on him, or I could
crawl inside of him and kick him to death.
But I was saved either of these expedients by his coming towards me so
abruptly that I dropped the rope in terror, and then he turned about,
and, kicking me full of mud, shot for the gate, ripping the clothes-line
in two, and went on down the street at a horrible gallop, with two of
Mrs. Perkins' garments, which he hastily snatched from the line,
floating over his neck in a very picturesque manner.
So I was afterwards told. I was too full of mud myself to see the way
into the house.
Stiver got his horse all right, and stays at home to care for him. Mrs.
Perkins has gone to her mother's to recuperate, and I am healing as fast
as possible.
THE CRIMSON CORD[1]
BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER