AMERICANS ALL

STORIES OF AMERICAN LIFE OF TO-DAY

EDITED BYBENJAMIN A. HEYDRICKEditor "Types of the Short Story, " etc. 

[Illustration: Publisher's logo]

NEW YORKHARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BYHARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC. 

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BYTHE QUINN & BODEN COMPANYRAHWAY. N. J. 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For permission to reprint the stories in this volume, acknowledgement ismade to the owners of the copyrights, as follows:

For "The Right Promethean Fire, " to Mrs. Atwood, R. Martin andDoubleday, Page & Company. 

For "The Land of Heart's Desire, " to Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Company. 

For "The Tenor, " to Alice I. Bunner and to Charles Scribners' Sons. 

For "The Passing of Priscilla Winthrop, " to William Allen White and TheMacmillan Company. 

For "The Gift of the Magi, " to Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Company. 

For "The Gold Brick, " copyright 1910, to Brand Whitlock and to TheBobbs, Merrill Company. 

For "His Mother's Son, " to Edna Ferber and the Frederick A. StokesCompany. 

For "Bitter-Sweet, " to Fannie Hurst and Harper & Brothers. 

For "The Riverman, " to Stewart Edward White and Doubleday, Page &Company. 

For "Flint and Fire, " to Dorothy Canfield Fisher and Messrs. Henry Holt& Company. 

For "The Ordeal at Mt. Hope, " to Mrs. Alice Dunbar, Mrs. MathildeDunbar, and Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company. 

For "Israel Drake, " to Katherine Mayo and Messrs. Houghton MifflinCompany. 

For "The Struggles and Triumph of Isidro, " to James M. Hopper. 

For "The Citizen, " to James F. Dwyer and the Paget Literary Agency. 

PREFACE

In the years before the war, when we had more time for light pursuits, afavorite sport of reviewers was to hunt for the Great American Novel. They gave tongue here and there, and pursued the quarry with greatexcitement in various directions, now north, now south, now west, andthe inevitable disappointment at the end of the chase never deterredthem from starting off on a fresh scent next day. But in spite of allthe frenzied pursuit, the game sought, the Great American Novel, wasnever captured. Will it ever be captured? The thing they sought was abook that would be so broad, so typical, so true that it would stand asthe adequate expression in fiction of American life. Did these tirelesshunters ever stop to ask themselves, what is the Great French Novel?what is the Great English Novel? And if neither of these nations hasproduced a single book which embodies their national life, why should weexpect that our life, so much more diverse in its elements, somultifarious in its aspects, could ever be summed up within the coversof a single book?

Yet while the critics continued their hopeless hunt, there was growingup in this country a form of fiction which gave promise of some dayachieving the task that this never-to-be written novel shouldaccomplish. This form was the short story. It was the work of manyhands, in many places. Each writer studied closely a certain locality, and transcribed faithfully what he saw. Thus the New England village, the western ranch, the southern plantation, all had their chroniclers. Nor was it only various localities that we saw in these one-reelpictures; they dealt with typical occupations, there were stories oftravelling salesmen, stories of lumbermen, stories of politicians, stories of the stage, stories of school and college days. If it werepossible to bring together in a single volume a group of these, each onereflecting faithfully one facet of our many-sided life, would not such abook be a truer picture of America than any single novel could present?

The present volume is an attempt to do this. That it is only an attempt, that it does not cover the whole field of our national life, no onerealizes better than the compiler. The title _Americans All_ signifiesthat the characters in the book are all Americans, not that they are allof the Americans. 

This book then differs in its purpose from other collections of shortstories. It does not aim to present the world's best short stories, norto illustrate the development of the form from Roman times to our ownday, nor to show how the technique of Poe differs from that of Irving:its purpose is none of these things, but rather to use the short storyas a means of interpreting American life. Our country is so vast thatfew of us know more than a small corner of it, and even in that cornerwe do not know all our fellow-citizens; differences of color, of race, of creed, of fortune, keep us in separate strata. But through books wemay learn to know our fellow-citizens, and the knowledge will make usbetter Americans. 

The story by Dorothy Canfield has a unique interest for the student, inthat it is followed by the author's own account of how it was written, from the first glimpse of the theme to the final typing of the story. Teachers who use this book for studying the art of short storyconstruction may prefer to begin with "Flint and Fire" and follow with"The Citizen, " tracing in all the others indications of the authors'methods. 

 BENJAMIN A. HEYDRICK. 

NEW YORK CITY, March, 1920. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE I. IN SCHOOL DAYS THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE _George Madden Martin_ 3 Sketch of George Madden Martin 16

 II. JUST KIDS THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE _Myra Kelly_ 21 Sketch of Myra Kelly 37

 III. HERO-WORSHIP THE TENOR _H. C. Bunner_ 41 Sketch of H. C. Bunner 54

 IV. SOCIETY IN OUR TOWN THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP _William Allen White_ 59 Sketch of William Allen White 73

 V. A PAIR OF LOVERS THE GIFT OF THE MAGI _O. Henry_ 79 Sketch of O. Henry 86

 VI. IN POLITICS THE GOLD BRICK _Brand Whitlock_ 91 Sketch of Brand Whitlock 111

 VII. THE TRAVELLING SALESMAN HIS MOTHER'S SON _Edna Ferber_ 117 Sketch of Edna Ferber 130

VIII. AFTER THE BIG STORE CLOSES BITTER-SWEET _Fannie Hurst_ 135 Sketch of Fannie Hurst 166

 IX. IN THE LUMBER COUNTRY THE RIVERMAN _Stewart Edward White_173 Sketch of Stewart E. White 185

 X. NEW ENGLAND GRANITE FLINT AND FIRE _Dorothy Canfield_ 191 HOW "FLINT AND FIRE" STARTED AND GREW _Dorothy Canfield_ 210 Sketch of Dorothy Canfield 221

 XI. DUSKY AMERICANS THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE _Paul Laurence Dunbar_227 Sketch of Paul Laurence Dunbar 249

 XII. WITH THE POLICE ISRAEL DRAKE _Katherine Mayo_ 255 Sketch of Katherine Mayo 273

XIII. IN THE PHILIPPINES THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPH OF ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS _James M. Hopper_ 279 Sketch of James M. Hopper 295

 XIV. THEY WHO BRING DREAMS TO AMERICA THE CITIZEN _James F. Dwyer_ 299 Sketch of James F. Dwyer 318

 XV. LIST OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES 321 Classified by locality

 XVI. NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 325

IN SCHOOL DAYS

_Are any days more rich in experiences than school days? The day onefirst enters school, whether it is the little red schoolhouse or the bigbrick building that holds a thousand pupils, --that day marks thebeginning of a new life. One of the best records in fiction of the worldof the school room is called_ EMMY LOU. _In this book George MaddenMartin has traced the progress of a winsome little maid from the firstgrade to the end of high school. This is the story of the first days inthe strange new world of the school room. _

THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE

BY

GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN

Emmy Lou, laboriously copying digits, looked up. The boy sitting in linein the next row of desks was making signs to her. 

She had noticed the little boy before. He was a square little boy, witha sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of the nose and a cheerfulbreadth of nostril. His teeth were wide apart, and his smile was broadand constant. Not that Emmy Lou could have told all this. She only knewthat to her the knowledge of the little boy concerning the thingspeculiar to the Primer World seemed limitless. 

And now the little boy was beckoning Emmy Lou. She did not know him, butneither did she know any of the seventy other little boys and girlsmaking the Primer Class. 

Because of a popular prejudice against whooping-cough, Emmy Lou had notentered the Primer Class until late. When she arrived, the seventylittle boys and girls were well along in Alphabetical lore, having longsince passed the a, b, c, of initiation, and become glibly eloquent to apoint where the l, m, n, o, p slipped off their tongues with the liquidease of repetition and familiarity. 

"But Emmy Lou can catch up, " said Emmy Lou's Aunt Cordelia, a plump andcheery lady, beaming with optimistic placidity upon the infant populaceseated in parallel rows at desks before her. 

Miss Clara, the teacher, lacked Aunt Cordelia's optimism, also herplumpness. "No doubt she can, " agreed Miss Clara, politely, but withoutenthusiasm. Miss Clara had stepped from the graduating rostrum to theschoolroom platform, and she had been there some years. And when one hasbeen there some years, and is already battling with seventy little boysand girls, one cannot greet the advent of a seventy-first with acclaim. Even the fact that one's hair is red is not an always sure indicationthat one's temperament is sanguine also. 

So in answer to Aunt Cordelia, Miss Clara replied politely but withoutenthusiasm, "No doubt she can. "

Then Aunt Cordelia went, and Miss Clara gave Emmy Lou a desk. And MissClara then rapping sharply, and calling some small delinquent to order, Emmy Lou's heart sank within her. 

Now Miss Clara's tones were tart because she did not know what to dowith this late comer. In a class of seventy, spare time is not offeringfor the bringing up of the backward. The way of the Primer teacher wasnot made easy in a public school of twenty-five years ago. 

So Miss Clara told the new pupil to copy digits. 

Now what digits were, Emmy Lou had no idea, but being shown them on theblack-board, she copied them diligently. And as the time went on, EmmyLou went on copying digits. And her one endeavor being to avoid thenotice of Miss Clara, it happened the needs of Emmy Lou were frequentlylost sight of in the more assertive claims of the seventy. 

Emmy Lou was not catching up, and it was January. 

But to-day was to be different. The little boy was nodding andbeckoning. So far the seventy had left Emmy Lou alone. As a generalthing the herd crowds toward the leaders, and the laggard brings up therear alone. 

But to-day the little boy was beckoning. Emmy Lou looked up. Emmy Louwas pink-cheeked and chubby and in her heart there was no guile. Therewas an ease and swagger about the little boy. And he always knew when tostand up, and what for. Emmy Lou more than once had failed to stand up, and Miss Clara's reminder had been sharp. It was when a bell rang onemust stand up. But what for, Emmy Lou never knew, until after the othersbegan to do it. 

But the little boy always knew. Emmy Lou had heard him, too, out on thebench glibly tell Miss Clara about the mat, and a bat, and a black rat. To-day he stood forth with confidence and told about a fat hen. Emmy Louwas glad to have the little boy beckon her. 

And in her heart there was no guile. That the little boy should beholding out an end of a severed india-rubber band and inviting her totake it, was no stranger than other things happening in the Primer Worldevery day. 

The very manner of the infant classification breathed mystery, the sheepfrom the goats, so to speak, the little girls all one side the centralaisle, the little boys all the other--and to over-step the line ofdemarcation a thing too dreadful to contemplate. 

Many things were strange. That one must get up suddenly when a bellrang, was strange. 

And to copy digits until one's chubby fingers, tightly gripping thepencil, ached, and then to be expected to take a sponge and wash thosedigits off, was strange. 

And to be told crossly to sit down was bewildering, when in answer to c, a, t, one said "Pussy. " And yet there was Pussy washing her face, on thechart, and Miss Clara's pointer pointing to her. 

So when the little boy held out the rubber band across the aisle, EmmyLou took the proffered end. 

At this the little boy slid back into his desk holding to his end. Atthe critical moment of elongation the little boy let go. And theproperty of elasticity is to rebound. 

Emmy Lou's heart stood still. Then it swelled. But in her filling eyesthere was no suspicion, only hurt. And even while a tear splashed down, and falling upon the laboriously copied digits, wrought havoc, shesmiled bravely across at the little boy. It would have made the littleboy feel bad to know how it hurt. So Emmy Lou winked bravely and smiled. 

Whereupon the little boy wheeled about suddenly and fell to copyingdigits furiously. Nor did he look Emmy Lou's way, only drove his pencilinto his slate with a fervor that made Miss Clara rap sharply on herdesk. 

Emmy Lou wondered if the little boy was mad. One would think it hadstung the little boy and not her. But since he was not looking, she feltfree to let her little fist seek her mouth for comfort. 

Nor did Emmy Lou dream, that across the aisle, remorse was eating into alittle boy's soul. Or that, along with remorse there went the image ofone Emmy Lou, defenceless, pink-cheeked, and smiling bravely. 

The next morning Emmy Lou was early. She was always early. Sinceentering the Primer Class, breakfast had lost its savor to Emmy Lou inthe terror of being late. 

But this morning the little boy was there before her. Hitherto his tardyand clattering arrival had been a daily happening, provocative ofaccents sharp and energetic from Miss Clara. 

But this morning he was at his desk copying from his Primer on to hisslate. The easy, ostentatious way in which he glanced from slate to bookwas not lost upon Emmy Lou, who lost her place whenever her eyes leftthe rows of digits upon the blackboard. 

Emmy Lou watched the performance. And the little boy's pencil drove withfurious ease and its path was marked with flourishes. Emmy Lou neverdreamed that it was because she was watching that the little boy wasmoved to this brilliant exhibition. Presently reaching the end of hispage, he looked up, carelessly, incidentally. It seemed to be borne tohim that Emmy Lou was there, whereupon he nodded. Then, as if moved bysudden impulse, he dived into his desk, and after ostentatious searchin, on, under it, brought forth a pencil, and held it up for Emmy Lou tosee. Nor did she dream that it was for this the little boy had beenthere since before Uncle Michael had unlocked the Primer door. 

Emmy Lou looked across at the pencil. It was a slate-pencil. A fine, long, new slate-pencil grandly encased for half its length in goldpaper. One bought them at the drug-store across from the school, and onepaid for them the whole of five cents. 

Just then a bell rang. Emmy Lou got up suddenly. But it was the bell forschool to take up. So she sat down. She was glad Miss Clara was not yetin her place. 

After the Primer Class had filed in, with panting and frosty entrance, the bell rang again. This time it was the right bell tapped by MissClara, now in her place. So again Emmy Lou got up suddenly and byfollowing the little girl ahead learned that the bell meant, "go out tothe bench. "

The Primer Class according to the degree of its infant precocity wasdivided in three sections. Emmy Lou belonged to the third section. Itwas the last section and she was the last one in it though she had noidea what a section meant nor why she was in it. 

Yesterday the third section had said, over and over, in chorus, "One andone are two, two and two are four, " etc. --but to-day they said, "Two andone are three, two and two are four. "

Emmy Lou wondered, four what? Which put her behind, so that when shebegan again they were saying, "two and four are six. " So now she knew. Four is six. But what is six? Emmy Lou did not know. 

When she came back to her desk the pencil was there. The fine, new, longslate-pencil encased in gold paper. And the little boy was gone. Hebelonged to the first section, and the first section was now on thebench. Emmy Lou leaned across and put the pencil back on the littleboy's desk. 

Then she prepared herself to copy digits with her stump of a pencil. Emmy Lou's were always stumps. Her pencil had a way of rolling off herdesk while she was gone, and one pencil makes many stumps. The littleboy had generally helped her pick them up on her return. But strangely, from this time, her pencils rolled off no more. 

But when Emmy Lou took up her slate there was a whole side filled withdigits in soldierly rows across, so her heart grew light and free fromthe weight of digits, and she gave her time to the washing of her desk, a thing in which her soul revelled, and for which, patterning after herlittle girl neighbors, she kept within that desk a bottle of soapy waterand rags of gray and unpleasant nature, that never dried, because oftheir frequent using. When Emmy Lou first came to school, her cleaningparaphernalia consisted of a sponge secured by a string to her slate, which was the badge of the new and the unsophisticated comer. Emmy Louhad quickly learned that, and no one rejoiced in a fuller assortment ofsoap, bottle, and rags than she, nor did a sponge longer dangle from theframe of her slate. 

On coming in from recess this same day, Emmy Lou found the pencil on herdesk again, the beautiful new pencil in the gilded paper. She put itback. 

But when she reached home, the pencil, the beautiful pencil that costsall of five cents, was in her companion box along with her stumps andher sponge and her grimy little slate rags. And about the pencil waswrapped a piece of paper. It had the look of the margin of a Primerpage. The paper bore marks. They were not digits. 

Emmy Lou took the paper to Aunt Cordelia. They were at dinner. 

"Can't you read it, Emmy Lou?" asked Aunt Katie, the prettiest aunty. 

Emmy Lou shook her head. 

"I'll spell the letters, " said Aunt Louise, the youngest aunty. 

But they did not help Emmy Lou one bit. 

Aunt Cordelia looked troubled. "She doesn't seem to be catching up, " shesaid. 

"No, " said Aunt Katie. 

"No, " agreed Aunt Louise. 

"Nor--on, " said Uncle Charlie, the brother of the aunties, lighting uphis cigar to go downtown. 

Aunt Cordelia spread the paper out. It bore the words:

"It is for you. "

So Emmy Lou put the pencil away in the companion, and tucked it aboutwith the grimy slate rags that no harm might befall it. And the next dayshe took it out and used it. But first she looked over at the littleboy. The little boy was busy. But when she looked up again, he waslooking. 

The little boy grew red, and wheeling suddenly, fell to copying digitsfuriously. And from that moment on the little boy was moved to strangebehavior. 

Three times before recess did he, boldly ignoring the preface ofupraised hand, swagger up to Miss Clara's desk. And going and coming, the little boy's boots with copper toes and run-down heels marked withthumping emphasis upon the echoing boards his processional andrecessional. And reaching his desk, the little boy slammed down hisslate with clattering reverberations. 

Emmy Lou watched him uneasily. She was miserable for him. She did notknow that there are times when the emotions are more potent than thesubtlest wines. Nor did she know that the male of some species is movedthus to exhibition of prowess, courage, defiance, for the impressing ofthe chosen female of the species. 

Emmy Lou merely knew that she was miserable and that she trembled forthe little boy. 

Having clattered his slate until Miss Clara rapped sharply, the littleboy rose and went swaggering on an excursion around the room to wheresat the bucket and dipper. And on his return he came up the centeraisle between the sheep and the goats. 

Emmy Lou had no idea what happened. It took place behind her. But therewas another little girl who did. A little girl who boasted curls, yellowcurls in tiered rows about her head. A lachrymosal little girl, whoaffected great horror of the little boys. 

And what Emmy Lou failed to see was this: the little boy, in passing, deftly lifted a cherished curl between finger and thumb and proceeded onhis way. 

The little girl did not fail the little boy. In the suddenness of thesurprise she surprised even him by her outcry. Miss Clara jumped. EmmyLou jumped. And the sixty-nine jumped. And, following this, the littlegirl lifted her voice in lachrymal lament. 

Miss Clara sat erect. The Primer Class held its breath. It always heldits breath when Miss Clara sat erect. Emmy Lou held tightly to her deskbesides. She wondered what it was all about. 

Then Miss Clara spoke. Her accents cut the silence. 

"Billy Traver!"

Billy Traver stood forth. It was the little boy. 

"Since you seem pleased to occupy yourself with the little girls, Billy, _go to the pegs_!"

Emmy Lou trembled. "Go to the pegs!" What unknown, inquisitorial terrorslay behind those dread, laconic words, Emmy Lou knew not. 

She could only sit and watch the little boy turn and stump back down theaisle and around the room to where along the wall hung rows of feminineapparel. 

Here he stopped and scanned the line. Then he paused before a hat. Itwas a round little hat with silky nap and a curling brim. It hadrosettes to keep the ears warm and ribbon that tied beneath the chin. Itwas Emmy Lou's hat. Aunt Cordelia had cautioned her to care concerningit. 

The little boy took it down. There seemed to be no doubt in his mind asto what Miss Clara meant. But then he had been in the Primer Class fromthe beginning. 

Having taken the hat down he proceeded to put it upon his own shockhead. His face wore its broad and constant smile. One would have saidthe little boy was enjoying the affair. As he put the hat on, thesixty-nine laughed. The seventieth did not. It was her hat, and besides, she did not understand. 

Miss Clara still erect spoke again: "And now, since you are a littlegirl, get your book, Billy, and move over with the girls. "

Nor did Emmy Lou understand why, when Billy, having gathered hisbelongings together, moved across the aisle and sat down with her, thesixty-nine laughed again. Emmy Lou did not laugh. She made room forBilly. 

Nor did she understand when Billy treated her to a slow andsurreptitious wink, his freckled countenance grinning beneath therosetted hat. It never could have occurred to Emmy Lou that Billy hadlaid his cunning plans to this very end. Emmy Lou understood nothing ofall this. She only pitied Billy. And presently, when public attentionhad become diverted, she proffered him the hospitality of a grimy littleslate rag. When Billy returned the rag there was something init--something wrapped in a beautiful, glazed, shining bronze paper. Itwas a candy kiss. One paid five cents for six of them at the drug-store. 

On the road home, Emmy Lou ate the candy. The beautiful, shiny paper sheput in her Primer. The slip of paper that she found within she carriedto Aunt Cordelia. It was sticky and it was smeared. But it had readingon it. 

"But this is printing, " said Aunt Cordelia; "can't you read it?"

Emmy Lou shook her head. 

"Try, " said Aunt Katie. 

"The easy words, " said Aunt Louise. 

But Emmy Lou, remembering c-a-t, Pussy, shook her head. 

Aunt Cordelia looked troubled. "She certainly isn't catching up, " saidAunt Cordelia. Then she read from the slip of paper:

 "Oh, woman, woman, thou wert made The peace of Adam to invade. "

The aunties laughed, but Emmy Lou put it away with the glazed paper inher Primer. It meant quite as much to her as did the reading in thatPrimer: Cat, a cat, the cat. The bat, the mat, a rat. It was the jingleto both that appealed to Emmy Lou. 

About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She heard that it wasFebruary, and that wonderful things were peculiar to the Fourteenth. Atrecess the little girls locked arms and talked Valentines. The echoesreached Emmy Lou. 

The valentine must come from a little boy, or it wasn't the real thing. And to get no valentine was a dreadful--dreadful thing. And even thetimidest of the sheep began to cast eyes across at the goats. 

Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if not, how was sheto survive the contumely and shame?

You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was on yourvalentine. To tell even your best and truest little girl friend was toprove faithless to the little boy sending the valentine. These thingsreached Emmy Lou. 

Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of that, so gratefuldid she feel she would be to anyone sending her a valentine. 

And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way to school on theFourteenth Day of February. The drug-store window was full ofvalentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the street. She did not want to seethem. She knew the little girls would ask her if she had gotten avalentine. And she would have to say, No. 

She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her footsteps as she wentto her desk to lay down book and slate before taking off her wraps. Nordid Emmy Lou dream the eye of the little boy peeped through the crack ofthe door from Miss Clara's dressing-room. 

Emmy Lou's hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk lay somethingsquare and white. It was an envelope. It was a beautiful envelope, allover flowers and scrolls. 

Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew pink. 

She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had reading on it. 

Emmy Lou's heart sank. She could not read the reading. The door opened. Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid her valentine in her book, forsince you must not--she would never show her valentine--never. 

The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, and EmmyLou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with the joy of being able tosay it. 

Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her Primer, but noone else might see it. 

It rested heavy on Emmy Lou's heart, however, that there was reading onit. She studied it surreptitiously. The reading was made up of letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had thought about that. She knew some ofthe letters. She would ask someone the letters she did not know bypointing them out on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was learning. It wasthe first time since she came to school. 

But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, studying thevalentine again. 

Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. Aunt Cordelia wasbusy. 

"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou. 

Aunt Cordelia listened. 

"B, " said Emmy Lou, "and e?"

"Be, " said Aunt Cordelia. 

If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things werestrange. 

Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith. 

After dinner she approached Aunt Katie. 

"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?"

"My, " said Aunt Katie. 

The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to copythem off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, the house-boy. Tom was outat the gate talking to another house-boy. She waited until the other boywas gone. 

"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the letters off theslate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told her. 

Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section little girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou. 

Now she was alone, so she stopped. 

"Get any valentines?"

"Yes, " said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the little girl'sfriendliness, she added, "It has reading on it. "

"Pooh, " said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's beenreading the long verses inside to me. "

"Can you show them--valentines?" asked Emmy Lou. 

"Of course, to grown-up people, " said the little girl. 

The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie was there, and theaunties, sitting around, reading. 

"I got a valentine, " said Emmy Lou. 

They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and itcame to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not gone away, never to comeback, the year before, Valentine's Day would not have been forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed the black dress she was wearing because of themother who would never come back, and looked troubled. 

But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's knee. In the valentine's center were two hands clasping. Emmy Lou's forefingerpointed to the words beneath the clasped hands. 

"I can read it, " said Emmy Lou. 

They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt Louise looked overAunt Cordelia's shoulder. 

"B, " said Emmy Lou, "e--Be. "

The aunties nodded. 

"M, " said Emmy Lou, "y--my. "

Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V, " said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, n, t, i, n, e--Valentine. Be my Valentine. "

"There!" said Aunt Cordelia. 

"Well!" said Aunt Katie. 

"At last!" said Aunt Louise. 

"H'm!" said Uncle Charlie. 

GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN

In the South it is not unusual to give boys' names to girls, so ithappens that George is the real name of the woman who wrote _Emmy Lou_. George Madden was born in Louisville, Kentucky, May 3, 1866. Sheattended the public schools in Louisville, but on account of ill healthdid not graduate. She married Atwood R. Martin, and they made their homeat Anchorage, a suburb of Louisville. Here in an old house surrounded bygreat catalpa trees, with cardinals nesting in their branches, she wasrecovering from an illness, and to pass the time began to write a shortstory. The title was "How They Missed the Exposition"; when it was sentaway, and a check for seventy-five dollars came in payment, she wasencouraged to go on. Her next work was the series of stories entitled_Emmy Lou, Her Book and Heart_. This at once took rank as one of theclassics of school-room literature. It had a wide popularity in thiscountry, and was translated into French and German. One of the pleasanttributes paid to the book was a review in a Pittsburgh newspaper whichtook the form of a letter to Emmy Lou. It ran in part as follows:

 Dear Little Emmy Lou:

 I have read your book, Emmy Lou, and am writing this letter to tell you how much I love you. In my world of books I know a great assembly of lovely ladies, Emmy Lou, crowned with beauty and garlanded with grace, that have inspired poets to song and the hearts of warriors to battle, but, Emmy Lou, I love you better than them all, because you are the dearest little girl I ever met. 

 I felt very sorry for you when the little boy in the Primer World, who could so glibly tell the teacher all about the mat and the bat and the black rat and the fat hen, hurt your chubby fist by snapping an india-rubber band. I do not think he atoned quite enough when he gave you that fine new long slate pencil, nor when he sent you your first valentine. No, he has not atoned quite enough, Emmy Lou, but now that you are Miss McLaurin, you will doubtless even the score by snapping the india-rubber band of your disdain at his heart. But only to show him how it stings, and then, of course, you'll make up for the hurt and be his valentine--won't you, Emmy Lou?... 

 And when, at twelve years, you find yourself dreaming, Emmy Lou, and watching the clouds through the schoolroom window, still I love you, Emmy Lou, for your conscience, which William told about in his essay. You remember, the two girls who met a cow. 

 "Look her right in the face and pretend we aren't afraid, " said the biggest girl. But the littlest girl--that was you--had a conscience. "Won't it be deceiving the cow?" she wanted to know. Brave, honest Emmy Lou!

 Yes, I love you, Emmy Lou, better than all the proud and beauteous heroines in the big grown-up books, because you are so sunshiny and trustful, so sweet and brave--because you have a heart of gold, Emmy Lou. And I want you to tell George Madden Martin how glad I am that she has told us all about you, the dearest little girl since Alice dropped down into Wonderland. 

 George Seibel. 

The book is more than a delightful piece of fiction. Through itsfaithful study of the development of a child's mind, and its criticismof the methods employed in many schools, it becomes a valuablecontribution to education. As such it is used in the School of Pedagogyof Harvard University. 

George Madden Martin told more about Emmy Lou in a second book ofstories entitled _Emmy Lou's Road to Grace_, which relates the littlegirl's experience at home and in Sunday school. Other works from her penare: _A Warwickshire Lad_, the story of William Shakespeare's earlylife; _The House of Fulfillment_, a novel; _Abbie Ann_, a story forchildren; _Letitia; Nursery Corps, U. S. A. _, a story of a child, alsoshowing various aspects of army life; _Selina_, the story of a younggirl who has been brought up in luxury, and finds herself confrontedwith the necessity of earning a living without any equipment for thetask. None of these has equalled the success of her first book, but thatis one of the few successful portrayals of child life in fiction. 

JUST KIDS

_That part of New York City known as the East Side, the region south ofFourteenth Street and east of Broadway, is the most densely populatedsquare mile on earth. Its people are of all races; Chinatown, LittleHungary and Little Italy elbow each other; streets where the signs arein Hebrew characters, theatres where plays are given in Yiddish, noticesin the parks in four or five languages, make one rub his eyes and wonderif he is not in some foreign land. Into this region Myra Kelly went as ateacher in the public school. Her pupils were largely Russian Jews, andin a series of delightfully humorous stories she has drawn these littlecitizens to the life. _

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

BY

MYRA KELLY

Isaac Borrachsohn, that son of potentates and of Assemblymen, had beentaken to Central Park by a proud uncle. For weeks thereafter he was thefavorite bard of the First Reader Class and an exceeding great troubleto its sovereign, Miss Bailey, who found him now as garrulous as he hadonce been silent. There was no subject in the Course of Study to whichhe could not correlate the wonders of his journey, and Teacher askedherself daily and in vain whether it were more pedagogically correct toencourage "spontaneous self-expression" or to insist upon "logicallyessential sequence. "

But the other members of the class suffered no such uncertainty. Theyvoted solidly for spontaneity in a self which found expression thus:

"Und in the Central Park stands a water-lake, und in the water-lakestands birds--a big all of birds--und fishes. Und sooner you likes youshould come over the water-lake you calls a bird, und you sets on thebird, und the bird makes go his legs, und you comes over thewater-lake. "

"They could be awful polite birds, " Eva Gonorowsky was beginning whenMorris interrupted with:

"I had once a auntie und she had a bird, a awful polite bird; on'ysooner somebody calls him he _couldn't_ to come the while he sets in acage. "

"Did he have a rubber neck?" Isaac inquired, and Morris reluctantlyadmitted that he had not been so blessed. 

"In the Central Park, " Isaac went on, "all the birds is got rubbernecks. "

"What color from birds be they?" asked Eva. 

"All colors. Blue und white und red und yellow. "

"Und green, " Patrick Brennan interjected determinedly. "The green onesis the best. "

"Did you go once?" asked Isaac, slightly disconcerted. 

"Naw, but I know. Me big brother told me. "

"They could to be stylish birds, too, " said Eva wistfully. "Stylish undpolite. From red und green birds is awful stylish for hats. "

"But these birds is big. Awful big! Mans could ride on 'em und ladiesund boys. "

"Und little girls, Ikey? Ain't they fer little girls?" asked the onlylittle girl in the group. And a very small girl she was, with a softlygentle voice and darkly gentle eyes fixed pleadingly now upon the bard. 

"Yes, " answered Isaac grudgingly; "sooner they sets by somebody's sidelittle girls could to go. But sooner nobody holds them by the hand theycould to have fraids over the rubber-neck-boat-birds und the water-lake, und the fishes. "

"What kind from fishes?" demanded Morris Mogilewsky, monitor of MissBailey's gold fish bowl, with professional interest. 

"From gold fishes und red fishes und black fishes"--Patrick stirreduneasily and Isaac remembered--"und green fishes; the green ones is thebiggest; and blue fishes und _all_ kinds from fishes. They lives waydown in the water the while they have fraids over therubber-neck-boat-birds. Say--what you think? Sooner arubber-neck-boat-bird needs he should eat he longs down his neck undeats a from-gold fish. "

"'Out fryin'?" asked Eva, with an incredulous shudder. 

"Yes, 'out fryin'. Ain't I told you little girls could to have fraidsover 'em? Boys could have fraids too, " cried Isaac; and then spurred bythe calm of his rival, he added: "The rubber-neck-boat-birds theyhollers somethin' fierce. "

"I wouldn't be afraid of them. Me pop's a cop, " cried Patrick stoutly. "I'd just as lief set on 'em. I'd like to. "

"Ah, but you ain't seen 'em, und you ain't heard 'em holler, " Isaacretorted. 

"Well, I'm goin' to. An' I'm goin' to see the lions an' the tigers an'the el'phants, an' I'm goin' to ride on the water-lake. "

"Oh, how I likes I should go too!" Eva broke out. "O-o-oh, _how_ I likesI should look on them things! On'y I don't know do I need a ride onsomethings what hollers. I don't know be they fer me. "

"Well, I'll take ye with me if your mother leaves you go, " said Patrickgrandly. "An' ye can hold me hand if ye're scared. "

"Me too?" implored Morris. "Oh, Patrick, c'n I go too?"

"I guess so, " answered the Leader of the Line graciously. But he turneda deaf ear to Isaac Borrachsohn's implorings to be allowed to join theparty. Full well did Patrick know of the grandeur of Isaac's holidayattire and the impressionable nature of Eva's soul, and gravely did hefear that his own Sunday finery, albeit fashioned from the blue clothand brass buttons of his sire, might be outshone. 

At Eva's earnest request, Sadie, her cousin, was invited, and Morrissuggested that the Monitor of the Window Boxes should not be slighted byhis colleagues of the gold fish and the line. So Nathan Spiderwitz wasraised to Alpine heights of anticipation by visions of a window box "asbig as blocks and streets, " where every plant, in contrast to his lankycharges, bore innumerable blossoms. Ignatius Aloysius Diamantstein wasunanimously nominated as a member of the expedition; by Patrick, becausethey were neighbors at St. Mary's Sunday-school; by Morris, because theywere classmates under the same rabbi at the synagogue; by Nathan, because Ignatius Aloysius was a member of the "Clinton Street gang"; bySadie, because he had "long pants sailor suit"; by Eva, because theothers wanted him. 

Eva reached home that afternoon tingling with anticipation anduncertainty. What if her mother, with one short word, should closeforever the gates of joy and boat-birds? But Mrs. Gonorowsky met hersmall daughter's elaborate plea with the simple question:

"Who pays you the car-fare?"

"Does it need car-fare to go?" faltered Eva. 

"Sure does it, " answered her mother. "I don't know how much, but some itneeds. Who pays it?"

"Patrick ain't said. "

"Well, you should better ask him, " Mrs. Gonorowsky advised, and, on thenext morning, Eva did. She thereby buried the leader under the ruins ofhis fallen castle of clouds, but he struggled through them with thesuggestion that each of his guests should be her, or his, own banker. 

"But ain't you got _no_ money 't all?" asked the guest of honor. 

"Not a cent, " responded the host. "But I'll get it. How much have you?"

"A penny. How much do I need?"

"I don't know. Let's ask Miss Bailey. "

School had not yet formally begun and Teacher was reading. She washardly disturbed when the children drove sharp elbows into her shoulderand her lap, and she answered Eva's--"Miss Bailey--oh, Missis Bailey, "with an abstracted--"Well, dear?"

"Missis Bailey, how much money takes car-fare to the Central Park?"

Still with divided attention, Teacher replied--"Five cents, honey, " andread on, while Patrick called a meeting of his forces and madeembarrassing explanations with admirable tact. 

There ensued weeks of struggle and economy for the exploring party, towhich had been added a chaperon in the large and reassuring person ofBecky Zalmonowsky, the class idiot. Sadie Gonorowsky's careful motherhad considered Patrick too immature to bear the whole responsibility, and he, with a guile which promised well for his future, had compliedwith her desires and preserved his own authority unshaken. For Becky, poor child, though twelve years old and of an aspect eminentlycalculated to inspire trust in those who had never held speech with her, was a member of the First Reader Class only until such time as roomcould be found for her in some of the institutions where suchunfortunates are bestowed. 

Slowly and in diverse ways each of the children acquired the essentialnickel. Some begged, some stole, some gambled, some bartered, someearned, but their greatest source of income, Miss Bailey, was denied tothem. For Patrick knew that she would have insisted upon some reallyefficient guardian from a higher class, and he announced with much heatthat he would not go at all under those circumstances. 

At last the leader was called upon to set the day and appointed aSaturday in late May. He was disconcerted to find that only IgnatiusAloysius would travel on that day. 

"It's holidays, all Saturdays, " Morris explained; "und we dassent toride on no cars. "

"Why not?" asked Patrick. 

"It's law, the rabbi says, " Nathan supplemented. "I don't know why isit; on'y rides on holidays ain't fer us. "

"I guess, " Eva sagely surmised; "I guess rubber-neck-boat-birds rideseven ain't fer us on holidays. But I don't know do I need rides on birdswhat hollers. "

"You'll be all right, " Patrick assured her. "I'm goin' to let ye hold mehand. If ye can't go on Saturday, I'll take ye on Sunday--next Sunday. Yous all must meet me here on the school steps. Bring yer money andbring yer lunch too. It's a long way and ye'll be hungry when ye getthere. Ye get a terrible long ride for five cents. "

"Does it take all that to get there?" asked the practical Nathan. "Thenhow are we goin' to get back?"

Poor little poet soul! Celtic and improvident! Patrick's visions hadshown him only the triumphant arrival of his host and the beatific joyof Eva as she floated by his side on the most "fancy" of boat-birds. Ofthe return journey he had taken no thought. And so the saving andplanning had to be done all over again. The struggle for the firstnickel had been wearing and wearying, but the amassment of the secondwas beyond description difficult. The children were worn from longstrife and many sacrifices, for the temptations to spend six or ninecents are so much more insistent and unusual than are yearnings tosquander lesser sums. Almost daily some member of the band would confessa fall from grace and solvency, and almost daily Isaac Borrachsohn wascalled upon to descant anew upon the glories of the Central Park. Becky, the chaperon, was the most desultory collector of the party. Over andover she reached the proud heights of seven or even eight cents, only tolavish her hoard on the sticky joys of the candy cart of IsidoreBelchatosky's papa or on the suddy charms of a strawberry soda. 

Then tearfully would she repent of her folly, and bitterly would theothers upbraid her, telling again of the joys and wonders she hadsquandered. Then loudly would she bewail her weakness and plead inextenuation: "I seen the candy. Mouses from choc'late und Foxy Gran'pasfrom sugar--und I ain't never seen no Central Park. "

"But don't you know how Isaac says?" Eva would urge. "Don't you know howall things what is nice fer us stands in the Central Park? Say, Isaac, you should better tell Becky, some more, how the Central Park stands. "

And Isaac's tales grew daily more wild and independent of fact until thelittle girls quivered with yearning terror and the boys burnished upforgotten cap pistols. He told of lions, tigers, elephants, bears, andbuffaloes, all of enormous size and strength of lung, so that beforemany days had passed he had debarred himself, by whole-hearted lying, from the very possibility of joining the expedition and seeing thedisillusionment of his public. With true artistic spirit he omitted allmention of confining house or cage and bestowed the gift of speech uponall the characters, whether brute or human, in his epic. Themerry-go-round he combined with the menagerie into a whole which was notto be resisted. 

"Und all the am'blins, " he informed his entranced listeners; "they goesaround, und around, und around, where music plays und flags is. Und Isets a lion und he runs around, und runs around, und runs around. Say--what you think? He had smiling looks und hair on the neck, undsooner he says like that 'I'm awful thirsty, ' I gives him a peanut und Igets a golden ring. "

"Where is it?" asked the jealous and incredulous Patrick. 

"To my house. " Isaac valiantly lied, for well he remembered the scene inwhich his scandalized but sympathetic uncle had discovered his attemptto purloin the brass ring which, with countless blackened duplicates, isplucked from a slot by the brandishing swords of the riders upon themerry-go-round. Truly, its possession had won him another ride--thistime upon an elephant with upturned trunk and wide ears--but in his mindthe return of that ring still ranked as the only grief in an otherwiseperfect day. 

Miss Bailey--ably assisted by Æsop, Rudyard Kipling, and ThompsonSeton--had prepared the First Reader Class to accept garrulous andbenevolent lions, cows, panthers, and elephants, and the exploringparty's absolute credulity encouraged Isaac to higher and yet higherflights, until Becky was strengthened against temptation. 

At last, on a Sunday in late June, the cavalcade in splendid raiment meton the wide steps, boarded a Grand Street car, and set out for Paradise. Some confusion occurred at the very beginning of things when BeckyZalmonowsky curtly refused to share her pennies with the conductor. Whenshe was at last persuaded to yield, an embarrassing five minutes wasconsumed in searching for the required amount in the nooks and cranniesof her costume where, for safe-keeping, she had cached her fund. Onepenny was in her shoe, another in her stocking, two in the lining of herhat, and one in the large and dilapidated chatelaine bag which dangledat her knees. 

Nathan Spiderwitz, who had preserved absolute silence, now contributedhis fare, moist and warm, from his mouth, and Eva turned to himadmonishingly. 

"Ain't Teacher told you money in the mouth ain't healthy fer you?" shesternly questioned, and Nathan, when he had removed other pennies, wasable to answer:

"I washed 'em off--first. " And they were indeed most brightly clean. "There's holes in me these here pockets, " he explained, and promptlycorked himself anew with currency. 

"But they don't tastes nice, do they?" Morris remonstrated. Nathan shooka corroborative head. "Und, " the Monitor of the Gold Fish further urged, "you could to swallow 'em und then you couldn't never to come by yourhouse no more. "

But Nathan was not to be dissuaded, even when the impressionable andexperimental Becky tried his storage system and suffered keen discomfortbefore her penny was restored to her by a resourceful fellow travelerwho thumped her right lustily on the back until her crowings ceased andthe coin was once more in her hand. 

At the meeting of Grand Street with the Bowery, wild confusion was madewilder by the addition of seven small persons armed with transfers andclamoring--all except Nathan--for Central Park. Two newsboys and apoliceman bestowed them upon a Third Avenue car and all went well untilPatrick missed his lunch and charged Ignatius Aloysius with itsabstraction. Words ensued which were not easily to be forgotten evenwhen the refreshment was found--flat and horribly distorted--under theportly frame of the chaperon. 

Jealousy may have played some part in the misunderstanding, for it wasundeniable that there was a sprightliness, a joyant brightness, in theflowing red scarf on Ignatius Aloysius's nautical breast, which wasnowhere paralleled in Patrick's more subdued array. And the tenthcommandment seemed very arbitrary to Patrick, the star of St. Mary'sSunday-school, when he saw that the red silk was attracting nearly allthe attention of his female contingent. If Eva admired flaunting ties itwere well that she should say so now. There was yet time to sparehimself the agony of riding on rubber-neck-boat-birds with one whoseinterest wandered from brass buttons. Darkly Patrick scowled upon hisunconscious rival, and guilefully he remarked to Eva:

"Red neckties is nice, don't you think?"

"Awful nice, " Eva agreed; "but they ain't so stylish like high-stiffs. High-stiffs und derbies is awful stylish. "

Gloom and darkness vanished from the heart and countenance of the Knightof Munster, for around his neck he wore, with suppressed agony, thehighest and stiffest of "high-stiffs" and his brows--and the back of hisneck--were encircled by his big brother's work-a-day derby. Again he sawand described to Eva the vision which had lived in his hopes for now somany weeks: against a background of teeming jungle, mysterious and alivewith wild beasts, an amiable boat-bird floated on the water-lake: andupon the boat-bird, trembling but reassured, sat Eva Gonorowsky, hand inhand with her brass-buttoned protector. 

As the car sped up the Bowery the children felt that they were indeedadventurers. The clattering Elevated trains overhead, the crowds ofbrightly decked Sunday strollers, the clanging trolley cars, and theglimpses they caught of shining green as they passed the streets leadingto the smaller squares and parks, all contributed to the holidayupliftedness which swelled their unaccustomed hearts. At each vista ofgreen they made ready to disembark and were restrained only by theconductor and by the sage counsel of Eva, who reminded her impulsivecompanions that the Central Park could be readily identified by "thehollers from all those things what hollers. " And so, in happy watchingand calm trust of the conductor, they were borne far beyond 59th Street, the first and most popular entrance to the park, before an interestedpassenger came to their rescue. They tumbled off the car and pressedtowards the green only to find themselves shut out by a high stone wall, against which they crouched and listened in vain for identifyinghollers. The silence began to frighten them, when suddenly the quiet airwas shattered by a shriek which would have done credit to the biggest ofboat-birds or of lions, but which was--the children discovered after amoment's panic--only the prelude to an outburst of grief on thechaperon's part. When the inarticulate stage of her sorrow was passed, she demanded instant speech with her mamma. She would seem to haveexpressed a sentiment common to the majority, for three heads in Springfinery leaned dejectedly against the stone barrier while Nathan removedhis car-fare to contribute the remark that he was growing hungry. Patrick was forced to seek aid in the passing crowd on Fifth Avenue, andin response to his pleading eyes and the depression of his party, a ladyof gentle aspect and "kind looks" stopped and spoke to them. 

"Indeed, yes, " she reassured them; "this is Central Park. "

"It has looks off the country, " Eva commented. 

"Because it is a piece of the country, " the lady explained. 

"Then we dassent to go, the while we ain't none of us got no sickness, "cried Eva forlornly. "We're all, all healthy, und the country is forsick childrens. "

"I am glad you are well, " said the lady kindly; "but you may certainlyplay in the park. It is meant for all little children. The gate is near. Just walk on near this wall until you come to it. "

It was only a few blocks, and they were soon in the land of theirhearts' desire, where were waving trees and flowering shrubs andsmoothly sloping lawns, and, framed in all these wonders, a beautifullittle water-lake all dotted and brightened by fleets of tiny boats. Thepilgrims from the East Side stood for a moment at gaze and then boredown upon the jewel, straight over grass and border, which is a coursenot lightly to be followed within park precincts and in view of parkpolicemen. The ensuing reprimand dashed their spirits not at all andthey were soon assembled close to the margin of the lake, where they gotentangled in guiding strings and drew to shore many a craft, to thedisgust of many a small owner. Becky Zalmonowsky stood so closely overthe lake that she shed the chatelaine bag into its shallow depths anddid irreparable damage to her gala costume in her attempts to "dibble"for her property. It was at last recovered, no wetter than the toiletteit was intended to adorn, and the cousins Gonorowsky had much difficultyin balking Becky's determination to remove her gown and dry it then andthere. 

Then Ignatius Aloysius, the exacting, remembered garrulously that he hadas yet seen nothing of the rubber-neck-boat-birds and suggested thatthey were even now graciously "hollering like an'thing" in some remotefastness of the park. So Patrick gave commands and the march was resumedwith bliss now beaming on all the faces so lately clouded. Every turn ofthe endless walks brought new wonders to these little ones who weregazing for the first time upon the great world of growing things ofwhich Miss Bailey had so often told them. The policeman's warning hadbeen explicit and they followed decorously in the paths and picked noneof the flowers which as Eva had heard of old, were sticking right up outof the ground. But other flowers there were dangling high or low on treeor shrub, while here and there across the grass a bird came hopping or asquirrel ran. But the pilgrims never swerved. Full well they knew thatthese delights were not for such as they. 

It was, therefore, with surprise and concern that they at lastdebouched upon a wide green space where a flag waved at the top of atowering pole; for, behold, the grass was covered thick with children, with here and there a beneficent policeman looking serenely on. 

"Dast _we_ walk on it?" cried Morris. "Oh, Patrick, dast we?"

"Ask the cop, " Nathan suggested. It was his first speech for an hour, for Becky's misadventure with the chatelaine bag and the water-lake hadmade him more than ever sure that his own method of safe-keeping was thebest. 

"Ask him yerself, " retorted Patrick. He had quite intended to accost alarge policeman, who would of course recognize and revere the buttons ofMr. Brennan _père_, but a commander cannot well accept the advice of hissubordinates. But Nathan was once more beyond the power of speech, andit was Morris Mogilewsky who asked for and obtained permission to walkon God's green earth. With little spurts of running and tentative jumpsto test its spring, they crossed Peacock Lawn to the grateful shade ofthe trees at its further edge and there disposed themselves upon theground and ate their luncheon. Nathan Spiderwitz waited until Sadie hadfinished and then entrusted the five gleaming pennies to her care whilehe wildly bolted an appetizing combination of dark brown bread anduncooked eel. 

Becky reposed flat upon the chatelaine bag and waved her still dampshoes exultantly. Eva lay, face downward beside her, and peeredwonderingly deep into the roots of things. 

"Don't it smells nice!" she gloated. "Don't it looks nice! My, ain't wehavin' the party-time!"

"Don't mention it, " said Patrick, in careful imitation of his mother'shostess manner. "I'm pleased to see you, I'm sure. "

"The Central Park is awful pretty, " Sadie soliloquized as she lay on herback and watched the waving branches and blue sky far above. "Awfulpretty! I likes we should live here all the time. "

"Well, " began Ignatius Aloysius Diamantstein, in slight disparagement ofhis rival's powers as a cicerone; "well, I ain't seen no lions, nor norubber-neck-boat-birds. Und we ain't had no rides on nothings. Und Iain't heard no hollers neither. "

As if in answer to this criticism there arose, upon the road beyond thetrees, a snorting, panting noise, growing momentarily louder andculminating, just as East Side nerves were strained to breaking point, in a long hoarse and terrifying yell. There was a flash of red, a cloudof dust, three other toots of agony, and the thing was gone. Gone, too, were the explorers and gone their peaceful rest. To a distant end of thefield they flew, led by the panic-stricken chaperon, and followed by Evaand Patrick, hand in hand, he making show of bravery he was far fromfeeling, and she frankly terrified. In a secluded corner, near therestaurant, the chaperon was run to earth by her breathless charges:

"I seen the lion, " she panted over and over. "I seen the fierce, big redlion, und I don't know where is my mamma. "

Patrick saw that one of the attractions had failed to attract, so hetried another. 

"Le's go an' see the cows, " he proposed. "Don't you know the po'trypiece Miss Bailey learned us about cows?"

Again the emotional chaperon interrupted. "I'm loving much mit MissBailey, too, " she wailed. "Und I don't know where is she neither. " Butthe pride of learning upheld the others and they chanted in sing-songchorus, swaying rhythmically the while from leg to leg:

 "The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart: She gives me cream with all her might, To eat with apple-tart Robert Louis Stevenson. "

Becky's tears ceased. "Be there cows in the Central Park?" shedemanded. 

"Sure, " said Patrick. 

"Und what kind from cream will he give us? Ice cream?"

"Sure, " said Patrick again. 

"Let's go, " cried the emotional chaperon. A passing stranger turned theband in the general direction of the menagerie and the reality of thecow brought the whole "memory gem" into strange and undreamed reality. 

Gaily they set out through new and always beautiful ways; throughtunnels where feet and voices rang with ghostly boomings most pleasantto the ear; over bridges whence they saw--in partial proof of IsaacBorrachsohn's veracity--"mans und ladies ridin'. " Of a surety they rodenothing more exciting than horses, but that was, to East Side eyes, anunaccustomed sight, and Eva opined that it was owing, probably, to theshortness of their watch that they saw no lions and tigers similarlyamiable. The cows, too, seemed far to seek, but the trees and grass andflowers were everywhere. Through long stretches of "for sure country"they picked their way, until they came, hot but happy, to a green andshady summerhouse on a hill. There they halted to rest, and thereIgnatius Aloysius, with questionable delicacy, began to insist once moreupon the full measure of his bond. 

"We ain't seen the rubber-neck-boat-birds, " he complained. "Und we ain'thad no rides on nothings. "

"You don't know what is polite, " cried Eva, greatly shocked at thiscarping spirit in the presence of a hard-worked host. "You could tothink shame over how you says somethings like that on a party. "

"This ain't no party, " Ignatius Aloysius retorted. "It's a 'scursion. Toa party somebody _gives_ you what you should eat; to a 'scursion you_brings_ it. Und anyway, we ain't had no rides. "

"But we heard a holler, " the guest of honor reminded him. "We heard afierce, big holler from a lion. I don't know do I need a ride onsomething what hollers. I could to have a fraid maybe. "

"Ye wouldn't be afraid on the boats when I hold yer hand, would ye?"Patrick anxiously inquired, and Eva shyly admitted that, thus supported, she might not be dismayed. To work off the pride and joy caused by thisavowal, Patrick mounted the broad seat extending all around thesummerhouse and began to walk clatteringly upon it. The other pilgrimsfollowed suit and the whole party stamped and danced with infiniteenjoyment. Suddenly the leader halted with a loud cry of triumph andpointed grandly out through one of the wistaria-hung openings. Not DeSoto on the banks of the Mississippi nor Balboa above the Pacific couldhave felt more victorious than Patrick did as he announced:

"There's the water-lake!"

His followers closed in upon him so impetuously that he was borne downunder their charge and fell ignominiously out on the grass. But he washardly missed, he had served his purpose. For there, beyond the rocksand lawns and red japonicas, lay the blue and shining water-lake in itsconfining banks of green. And upon its softly quivering surface floatedthe rubber-neck-boat-birds, white and sweetly silent instead of red andscreaming--and the superlative length and arched beauty of their neckssurpassed the wildest of Ikey Borrachsohn's descriptions. And relyingupon the strength and politeness of these wondrous birds there wereindeed "mans und ladies und boys und little girls" embarking, disembarking, and placidly weaving in and out and round about throughscenes of hidden but undoubted beauty. 

Over rocks and grass the army charged towards bliss unutterable, strewing their path with overturned and howling babies of prosperitywho, clumsy from many nurses and much pampering, failed to make way. Past all barriers, accidental or official, they pressed, nor halted todraw rein or breath until they were established, beatified, upon thewaiting swan-boat. 

Three minutes later they were standing outside the railings of thelanding and regarding, through welling tears, the placid lake, the sunnyslopes of grass and tree, the brilliant sky and the gleamingrubber-neck-boat-bird which, as Ikey described, "made go its legs, " butonly, as he had omitted to mention, for money. So there they stood, seven sorrowful little figures engulfed in the rayless despair ofchildhood and the bitterness of poverty. For these were the children ofthe poor, and full well they knew that money was not to be diverted fromits mission: that car-fare could not be squandered on bliss. 

Becky's woe was so strong and loud that the bitter wailings of theothers served merely as its background. But Patrick cared not at all forthe general despair. His remorseful eyes never strayed from the bowedfigure of Eva Gonorowsky, for whose pleasure and honor he had striven solong and vainly. Slowly she conquered her sobs, slowly she raised herdaisy-decked head, deliberately she blew her small pink nose, softly sheapproached her conquered knight, gently and all untruthfully shefaltered, with yearning eyes on the majestic swans:

"Don't you have no sad feelings, Patrick. I ain't got none. Ain't I toldyou from long, how I don't need no rubber-neck-boat-bird rides? I don'tneed 'em! I don't need 'em! I"--with a sob of passionate longing--"I'mgot all times a awful scare over 'em. Let's go home, Patrick. Beckyneeds she should see her mamma, und I guess I needs my mamma too. "

MYRA KELLY

Is it necessary to say that she was Irish? The humor, the sympathy, thequick understanding, the tenderness, that play through all her storiesare the birthright of the children of Erin. Myra Kelly was born inDublin, Ireland. Her father was Dr. John E. Kelly, a well-known surgeon. When Myra was little more than a baby, the family came to New York City. Here she was educated at the Horace Mann High School, and afterwards atTeachers College, a department of Columbia University, New York. Shegraduated from Teachers College in 1899. Her first school was in theprimary department of Public School 147, on East Broadway, New York, where she taught from 1899 to 1901. Here she met all the "littlealiens, " the Morris and Isidore, Yetta and Eva of her stories, and wonher way into their hearts. To her friends she would sometimes tell ofthese children, with their odd ideas of life and their dialect. "Whydon't you write these stories down?" they asked her, and at last she satdown and wrote her first story, "A Christmas Present for a Lady. " Shehad no knowledge of editorial methods, so she made four copies of thestory and sent them to four different magazines. Two of them returnedthe story, and two of them accepted it, much to her embarrassment. Thetwo acceptances came from _McClure's Magazine_ and _The Century_. As_McClure's_ replied first she gave the story to them, and most of herother stories were first published in that magazine. 

When they appeared in book form, they were welcomed by readers all overthe country. Even the President of the United States wrote to expresshis thanks to her, in the following letter:

 Oyster Bay, N. Y. July, 26, 1905. 

 My dear Miss Kelly:--

 Mrs. Roosevelt and I and most of the children know your very amusing and very pathetic accounts of East Side school children almost by heart, and I really think you must let me write and thank you for them. When I was Police Commissioner I quite often went to the Houston Street public school, and was immensely impressed by what I saw there. I thought there were a good many Miss Baileys there, and the work they were doing among their scholars (who were largely of Russian-Jewish parentage like the children you write of) was very much like what your Miss Bailey has done. 

 Very sincerely yours, Theodore Roosevelt. 

After two years of school room work, Miss Kelly's health broke down, andshe retired from teaching, although she served as critic teacher in theSpeyer School, Teachers College, for a year longer. One of the personswho had read her books with delight was Allen Macnaughton. Soon after hemet Miss Kelly, and in 1905 they were married. They lived for a time atOldchester Village, New Jersey, in the Orange mountains, in a colony ofliterary people which her husband was interested in establishing. Afterseveral years of very successful literary work, she developedtuberculosis. She went to Torquay, England, in search of health, anddied there March 31, 1910. 

Her works include the following titles: _Little Citizens_; _The Isle ofDreams_; _Wards of Liberty_; _Rosnah_; _the Golden Season_; _LittleAliens_; _New Faces_. One of the leading magazines speaks of her as thecreator of a new dialect. 

HERO WORSHIP

_Most of us are hero-worshippers at some time of our lives. The boyfinds his hero in the baseball player or athlete, the girl in thematinée idol, or the "movie" star. These objects of worship are notalways worthy of the adoration they inspire, but this does not mattergreatly, since their worshippers seldom find it out. There is somethingfine in absolute loyalty to an ideal, even if the ideal is far fromreality. "The Tenor" is the story of a famous singer and two of hisdevoted admirers_. 

THE TENOR[1]

BY

H. C. BUNNER

It was a dim, quiet room in an old-fashioned New York house, withwindows opening upon a garden that was trim and attractive, even in itswintry days--for the rose-bushes were all bundled up in straw ulsters. The room was ample, yet it had a cosy air. Its dark hangings suggestedcomfort and luxury, with no hint of gloom. A hundred pretty trifles toldthat it was a young girl's room: in the deep alcove nestled her daintywhite bed, draped with creamy lace and ribbons. 

"I was _so_ afraid that I'd be late!"

The door opened, and two pretty girls came in, one in hat and furs, theother in a modest house dress. The girl in the furs, who had been afraidthat she would be late, was fair, with a bright color in her cheeks, andan eager, intent look in her clear brown eyes. The other girl wasdark-eyed and dark-haired, dreamy, with a soft, warm dusky color in herface. They were two very pretty girls indeed--or, rather, two girlsabout to be very pretty, for neither one was eighteen years old. 

The dark girl glanced at a little porcelain clock. 

"You are in time, dear, " she said, and helped her companion to take offher wraps. 

Then the two girls crossed the room, and with a caressing and almost areverent touch, the dark girl opened the doors of a little carvencabinet that hung upon the wall, above a small table covered with adelicate white cloth. In its depths, framed in a mat of odorous doubleviolets, stood the photograph of the face of a handsome man of forty--aface crowned with clustering black locks, from beneath which a pair oflarge, mournful eyes looked out with something like religious fervor intheir rapt gaze. It was the face of a foreigner. 

"O Esther!" cried the other girl, "how beautifully you have dressed himto-day!"

"I wanted to get more, " Esther said; "but I've spent almost all myallowance--and violets do cost so shockingly. Come, now--" with anotherglance at the clock--"don't let's lose any more time, Louise dear. "

She brought a couple of tiny candles in Sevrès candlesticks, and twolittle silver saucers, in which she lit fragrant pastilles. As the palegray smoke arose, floating in faint wreaths and spirals before theenshrined photograph, Louise sat down and gazed intently upon the littlealtar. Esther went to her piano and watched the clock. It struck two. Her hands fell softly on the keys, and, studying a printed program infront of her, she began to play an overture. After the overture sheplayed one or two pieces of the regular concert stock. Then she paused. 

"I can't play the Tschaikowski piece. "

"Never mind, " said the other. "Let us wait for him in silence. "

The hands of the clock pointed to 2:29. Each girl drew a quick breath, and then the one at the piano began to sing softly, almost inaudibly, "les Rameaux" in a transcription for tenor of Fauré's great song. Whenit was ended, she played and sang the _encore_. Then, with her fingerstouching the keys so softly that they awakened only an echo-like sound, she ran over the numbers that intervened between the first tenor soloand the second. Then she sang again, as softly as before. 

The fair-haired girl sat by the little table, gazing intently on thepicture. Her great eyes seemed to devour it, and yet there was somethingabsent-minded, speculative, in her steady look. She did not speak untilEsther played the last number on the program. 

"He had three encores for that last Saturday, " she said, and Estherplayed the three encores. 

Then they closed the piano and the little cabinet, and exchanged aninnocent girlish kiss, and Louise went out, and found her father's coupéwaiting for her, and was driven away to her great, gloomy, brown-stonehome near Central Park. 

Louise Laura Latimer and Esther Van Guilder were the only children oftwo families which, though they were possessed of the three "Rs" whichare all and more than are needed to insure admission to New Yorksociety--Riches, Respectability and Religion--yet were not in Society;or, at least, in the society that calls itself Society. This was notbecause Society was not willing to have them. It was because theythought the world too worldly. Perhaps this was one reason--although thesocial horizon of the two families had expanded somewhat as the girlsgrew up--why Louise and Esther, who had been playmates from theirnursery days, and had grown up to be two uncommonly sentimental, fanciful, enthusiastically morbid girls, were to be found spending abright Winter afternoon holding a ceremonial service of worship beforethe photograph of a fashionable French tenor. 

It happened to be a French tenor whom they were worshiping. It might aswell have been anybody or any thing else. They were both at that periodof girlish growth when the young female bosom is torn by a hystericalcraving to worship something--any thing. They had been studying musicand they had selected the tenor who was the sensation of the hour in NewYork for their idol. They had heard him only on the concert stage; theywere never likely to see him nearer. But it was a mere matter of chancethat the idol was not a Boston Transcendentalist, a Popular Preacher, aFaith-Cure Healer, or a ringleted old maid with advanced ideas ofWoman's Mission. The ceremonies might have been different in form: theworship would have been the same. 

M. Hyppolite Rémy was certainly the musical hero of the hour. When hisadvance notices first appeared, the New York critics, who are asingularly unconfiding, incredulous lot, were inclined to discount hisEuropean reputation. 

When they learned that M. Rémy was not only a great artist, but a manwhose character was "wholly free from that deplorable laxity which is sooften a blot on the proud escutcheon of his noble profession;" that hehad married an American lady; that he had "embraced the Protestantreligion"--no sect was specified, possibly to avoid jealousy--and thathis health was delicate, they were moved to suspect that he might haveto ask that allowances be made for his singing. But when he arrived, histriumph was complete. He was as handsome as his picture, if he _was_ atrifle short, a shade too stout. 

He was a singer of genius, too; with a splendid voice and a soundmethod--on the whole. It was before the days of the Wagner autocracy, and perhaps his tremolo passed unchallenged as it could not now; but hewas a great artist. He knew his business as well as his advance-agentknew his. The Rémy Concerts were a splendid success. Reserved seats, $5. For the Series of Six, $25. 

 * * * * *

On the following Monday, Esther Van Guilder returned her friend's call, in response to an urgent invitation, despatched by mail. LouiseLatimer's great bare room was incapable of transmutation into a cosynest of a boudoir. There was too much of its heavy raw silkfurniture--too much of its vast, sarcophagus-like bed--too much of itsupholsterer's elegance, regardless of cost--and taste. An enlargementfrom an ambrotype of the original Latimer, as he arrived in New Yorkfrom New Hampshire, and a photograph of a "child subject" by Millais, were all her works of art. It was not to be doubted that they hadclimbed upstairs from a front parlor of an earlier stage of socialdevelopment. The farm-house was six generations behind Esther; twobehind Louise. 

Esther found her friend in a state of almost feverish excitement. Hereyes shone; the color burned high on her clear cheeks. 

"You never would guess what I've done, dear!" she began, as soon as theywere alone in the big room. "I'm going to see _him_--to speak tohim--_Esther!_" Her voice was solemnly hushed, "to _serve_ him!"

"Oh, Louise! what _do_ you mean?"

"To serve him--with my own hands! To--to--help him on with his coat--Idon't know--to do something that a servant does--anything, so that I cansay that once, once only, just for an hour, I have been near him, beenof use to him, served him in one little thing as loyally as he servesOUR ART. "

Music was THEIR art, and no capitals could tell how much it was theirsor how much of an art it was. 

"Louise, " demanded Esther, with a frightened look, "are you crazy?"

"No. Read this!" She handed the other girl a clipping from theadvertising columns of a newspaper. 

 CHAMBERMAID AND WAITRESS. --WANTED, A NEAT and willing girl, for light work. Apply to Mme. Rémy, The Midlothian, ... Broadway. 

"I saw it just by accident, Saturday, after I left you. Papa had lefthis paper in the coupé. I was going up to my First Aid to the InjuredClass--it's at four o'clock now, you know. I made up my mind rightoff--it came to me like an inspiration. I just waited until it came tothe place where they showed how to tie up arteries, and then I slippedout. Lots of the girls slip out in the horrid parts, you know. And then, instead of waiting in the ante-room, I put on my wrap, and pulled thehood over my head and ran off to the Midlothian--it's just around thecorner, you know. And I saw his wife. "

"What was she like?" queried Esther, eagerly. 

"Oh, I don't know. Sort of horrid--actressy. She had a pink silk wrapperwith swansdown all over it--at four o'clock, think! I was _awfully_frightened when I got there; but it wasn't the least trouble. She hardlylooked at me, and she engaged me right off. She just asked me if I waswilling to do a whole lot of things--I forgot what they were--and whereI'd worked before. I said at Mrs. Barcalow's. "

"Mrs. Barcalow's?"

"Why, yes--my Aunt Amanda, don't you know--up in Framingham. I alwayshave to wash the teacups when I go there. Aunty says that everybody hasgot to do _something_ in _her_ house. "

"Oh, Louise!" cried her friend, in shocked admiration; "how can youthink of such things?"

"Well, I did. And she--his wife, you know--just said: 'Oh, I supposeyou'll do as well as any one--all you girls are alike. '"

"But did she really take you for a--servant?"

"Why, yes, indeed. It was raining. I had that old ulster on, you know. I'm to go at twelve o'clock next Saturday. "

"But, Louise!" cried Esther, aghast, "you don't truly mean to go!"

"I do!" cried Louise, beaming triumphantly. 

"_Oh, Louise!_"

"Now, listen, dear, " said Miss Latimer, with the decision of anenthusiastic young lady with New England blood in her veins. "Don't saya word till I tell you what my plan is. I've thought it all out, andyou've got to help me. "

Esther shuddered. 

"You foolish child!" cried Louise. Her eyes were sparkling: she was in astate of ecstatic excitement; she could see no obstacles to thecarrying out of her plan. "You don't think I mean to _stay_ there, doyou? I'm just going at twelve o'clock, and at four he comes back fromthe matinée, and at five o'clock I'm going to slip on my things and rundownstairs, and have you waiting for me in the coupé, and off we go. Nowdo you see?"

It took some time to bring Esther's less venturesome spirit up to thepoint of assisting in this undertaking; but she began, after a while, tofeel the delights of vicarious enterprise, and in the end the two girls, their cheeks flushed, their eyes shining feverishly, their voicestremulous with childish eagerness, resolved themselves into a committeeof ways and means; for they were two well-guarded young women, and toengineer five hours of liberty was difficult to the verge ofimpossibility. However, there is a financial manoeuvre known as"kiting checks, " whereby A exchanges a check with B and B swaps with Aagain, playing an imaginary balance against Time and the Clearing House;and by a similar scheme, which an acute student of social ethics hascalled "kiting calls, " the girls found that they could make Saturdayafternoon their own, without one glance from the watchful eyes ofEsther's mother or Louise's aunt--Louise had only an aunt to reckonwith. 

"And, oh, Esther!" cried the bolder of the conspirators, "I've thoughtof a trunk--of course I've got to have a trunk, or she would ask mewhere it was, and I couldn't tell her a fib. Don't you remember theFrench maid who died three days after she came here? Her trunk is up inthe store-room still, and I don't believe anybody will ever come forit--it's been there seven years now. Let's go up and look at it. "

The girls romped upstairs to the great unused upper story, where heapsof household rubbish obscured the dusty half-windows. In a corner, behind Louise's baby chair and an unfashionable hat-rack of the oldsteering-wheel pattern, they found the little brown-painted tin trunk, corded up with clothesline. 

"Louise!" said Esther, hastily, "what did you tell her your name was?"

"I just said 'Louise'. "

Esther pointed to the name painted on the trunk, LOUISE LEVY

"It is the hand of Providence, " she said. "Somehow, now, I'm _sure_you're quite right to go. "

And neither of these conscientious young ladies reflected for one minuteon the discomfort which might be occasioned to Madame Rémy by thedefection of her new servant a half-hour before dinner-time on Saturdaynight. 

 * * * * *

"Oh, child, it's you, is it?" was Mme. Rémy's greeting at twelve o'clockon Saturday. "Well, you're punctual--and you look clean. Now, are yougoing to break my dishes or are you going to steal my rings? Well, we'llfind out soon enough. Your trunk's up in your room. Go up to theservant's quarters--right at the top of those stairs there. Ask for theroom that belongs to apartment 11. You are to room with their girl. "

Louise was glad of a moment's respite. She had taken the plunge; she wasdetermined to go through to the end. But her heart _would_ beat and herhands _would_ tremble. She climbed up six flights of winding stairs, andfound herself weak and dizzy when she reached the top and gazed aroundher. She was in a great half-story room, eighty feet square. The most ofit was filled with heaps of old furniture and bedding, rolls of carpet, of canvas, of oilcloth, and odds and ends of discard of unused householdgear--the dust thick over all. A little space had been left around threesides, to give access to three rows of cell-like rooms, in each of whichthe ceiling sloped from the very door to a tiny window at the level ofthe floor. In each room was a bed, a bureau that served for wash-stand, a small looking-glass, and one or two trunks. Women's dresses hung onthe whitewashed walls. She found No. 11, threw off, desperately, her hatand jacket, and sunk down on the little brown tin trunk, all tremblingfrom head to foot. 

"Hello, " called a cheery voice. She looked up and saw a girl in a dirtycalico dress. 

"Just come?" inquired this person, with agreeable informality. She was agood-looking large girl, with red hair and bright cheeks. She leanedagainst the door-post and polished her finger-nails with a little brush. Her hands were shapely. 

"Ain't got onto the stair-climbing racket yet, eh? You'll get used toit. 'Louise Levy, '" she read the name on the trunk. "You don't look likea sheeny. Can't tell nothin' 'bout names, can you? My name's Slattery. You'd think I was Irish, wouldn't you? Well, I'm straight Ne' York. I'dbe dead before I was Irish. Born here. Ninth Ward an' next to an enginehouse. How's that? There's white Jews, too. I worked for one, pickin'sealskins down in Prince Street. Most took the lungs out of me. But thatwasn't why I shook the biz. It queered my hands--see? I'm goin' to bemarried in the Fall to a German gentleman. He ain't so Dutch when youknow him, though. He's a grocer. Drivin' now; but he buys out the bossin the Fall. How's that? He's dead stuck on my hooks, an' I have to keep'em lookin' good. I come here because the work was light. I don't haveto work--only to be doin' somethin', see? Only got five halls and thelamps. You got a fam'ly job, I s'pose? I wouldn't have that. I don'tmind the Sooprintendent; but I'd be dead before I'd be bossed by awoman, see? Say, what fam'ly did you say you was with?"

The stream of talk had acted like a nerve-tonic on Louise. She was ableto answer:

"M--Mr. Rémy. "

"Ramy?--oh, lord! Got the job with His Tonsils? Well, you won't keep itlong. They're meaner'n three balls, see? Rent their room up here andchip in with eleven. Their girls don't never stay. Well, I got to step, or the Sooprintendent'll be borin' my ear. Well--so long!"

But Louise had fled down the stairs. "His Tonsils" rang in her ears. What blasphemy! What sacrilege! She could scarcely pretend to listen toMme. Rémy's first instructions. 

The household _was_ parsimonious. Louise washed the caterer's dishes--hemade a reduction in his price. Thus she learned that a late breakfasttook the place of luncheon. She began to feel what this meant. The bedshad been made; but there was work enough. She helped Mme. Rémy to spongea heap of faded finery--_her_ dresses. If they had been _his_ coats!Louise bent her hot face over the tawdry silks and satins, and claspedher parboiled little finger-tips over the wet sponge. At half-past threeMme. Rémy broke the silence. 

"We must get ready for Musseer, " she said. An ecstatic joy filledLouise's being. The hour of her reward was at hand. 

Getting ready for "Musseer" proved to be an appalling process. Firstthey brewed what Mme. Rémy called a "teaze Ann. " After the _tisane_, ahost of strange foreign drugs and cosmetics were marshalled in order. Then water was set to heat on a gas-stove. Then a little table wasneatly set. 

"Musseer has his dinner at half-past four, " Madame explained. "I don'ttake mine till he's laid down and I've got him off to the concert. There, he's coming now. Sometimes he comes home pretty nervous. If he'snervous, don't you go and make a fuss, do you hear, child?"

The door opened, and Musseer entered, wrapped in a huge froggedovercoat. There was no doubt that he was nervous. He cast his hat uponthe floor, as if he were Jove dashing a thunderbolt. Fire flashed fromhis eyes. He advanced upon his wife and thrust a newspaper in herface--a little pinky sheet, a notorious blackmailing publication. 

"Zees, " he cried, "is your work!"

"What _is_ it now, Hipleet?" demanded Mme. Rémy. 

"Vot it ees?" shrieked the tenor. "It ees ze history of how zey haveheest me at Nice! It ees all zair--how I have been heest--in zis sacresheet--in zis handkairchif of infamy! And it ees you zat have told it tozat devil of a Rastignac--_traitresse!_"

"Now, Hipleet, " pleaded his wife, "if I can't learn enough French totalk with you, how am I going to tell Rastignac about your beinghissed?"

This reasoning silenced Mr. Rémy for an instant--an instant only. 

"You _vood_ have done it!" he cried, sticking out his chin and thrustinghis face forward. 

"Well, I didn't, " said Madame, "and nobody reads that thing, any way. Now, don't mind it, and let me get your things off, or you'll becatching cold. "

Mr. Rémy yielded at last to the necessity of self-preservation, andpermitted his wife to remove his frogged overcoat, and to unwind himfrom a system of silk wraps to which the Gordian knot was a slip-noose. This done, he sat down before the dressing-case, and Mme. Rémy, aftertying a bib around his neck, proceeded to dress his hair and putbrilliantine on his moustache. Her husband enlivened the operation byreading from the pinky paper. 

"It ees not gen-air-al-lee known--zat zees dees-tin-guished tenor vosheest on ze pob-lic staidj at Nice--in ze year--"

Louise leaned against the wall, sick, faint and frightened, with astrange sense of shame and degradation at her heart. At last the tenor'seye fell on her. 

"Anozzair eediot?" he inquired. 

"She ain't very bright, Hipleet, " replied his wife; "but I guess she'lldo. Louise, open the door--there's the caterer. "

Louise placed the dishes upon the table mechanically. The tenor sathimself at the board, and tucked a napkin in his neck. 

"And how did the Benediction Song go this afternoon?" inquired hiswife. 

"Ze Bénédiction? Ah! One _encore_. One on-lee. Zese pigs of Ameéricains. I t'row my pairls biffo' swine. _Chops once more!_ You vant to mordairme? Vat do zis mean, madame? You ar-r-re in lig wiz my enemies. All zevorlt is against ze ar-r-r-teest!"

The storm that followed made the first seem a zephyr. The tenorexhausted his execratory vocabulary in French and English. At last, byway of a dramatic finale, he seized the plate of chops and flung it fromhim. He aimed at the wall; but Frenchmen do not pitch well. With a ringand a crash, plate and chops went through the broad window-pane. In themoment of stricken speechlessness that followed, the sound of the finalsmash came softly up from the sidewalk. 

"Ah-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!"

The tenor rose to his feet with the howl of an anguished hyena. 

"Oh, good gracious!" cried his wife; "he's going to have one of hiscreezes--his creezes de nare!"

He did have a _crise de nerfs_. "Ten dollair!" he yelled, "for tendollair of glass!" He tore his pomaded hair; he tore off his bib and hisneck-tie, and for three minutes without cessation he shrieked wildly andunintelligibly. It was possible to make out, however, that "arteest" and"ten dollair" were the themes of the improvisation. Finally he sankexhausted into the chair, and his white-faced wife rushed to his side. 

"Louise!" she cried, "get the foot-tub out of the closet while I sprayhis throat, or he can't sing a note. Fill it up with warm water--102degrees--there's the thermometer--and bathe his feet. "

Trembling from head to foot, Louise obeyed her orders, and brought thefoot-tub, full of steaming water. Then she knelt down and began to servethe maestro for the first time. She took off his shoes. Then she lookedat his socks. Could she do it?

"Eediot!" gasped the sufferer, "make haste! I die!"

"Hold your mouth open, dear, " said Madame, "I haven't half sprayed you. "

"Ah! _you!_" cried the tenor. "Cat! Devil! It ees you zat have killedme!" And moved by an access of blind rage, he extended his arm, andthrust his wife violently from him. 

Louise rose to her feet, with a hard set, good old New England look onher face. She lifted the tub of water to the level of her breast, andthen she inverted it on the tenor's head. For one instant she gazed atthe deluge, and at the bath-tub balanced on the maestro's skull like ahelmet several sizes too large--then she fled like the wind. 

Once in the servant's quarters, she snatched her hat and jacket. Frombelow came mad yells of rage. 

"I kill hare! give me my knife--give me my rivvolvare! Au secours!Assassin!"

Miss Slattery appeared in the doorway, still polishing her nails. 

"What have you done to His Tonsils?" she inquired. "He's pretty hot, this trip. "

"How can I get away from here?" cried Louise. 

Miss Slattery pointed to a small door. Louise rushed down a longstairway--another--and yet others--through a great room where there wasa smell of cooking and a noise of fires--past white-capped cooks andscullions--through a long stone corridor, and out into the street. Shecried aloud as she saw Esther's face at the window of the coupé. 

She drove home--cured. 

FOOTNOTE:

[1] From "Stories of H. C. Bunner, " copyright, 1890, 1896, by Alice L. Bunner; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of thepublishers. 

H. C. BUNNER

Henry Cuyler Bunner was his full name, H. C. Bunner was the way healways signed his writings, and "Bunner" was his name to his friends, and even to his wife. He was born in Oswego, New York, August 3, 1855. His parents soon moved to New York City, and Bunner was educated in thepublic schools there. Then he became a clerk in a business house, butthis did not satisfy him, and he began to write for newspapers, finallygetting a position on the _Arcadian_, a short-lived journal. In 1877 thepublishers of _Puck_, a humorous weekly printed in the German language, decided to issue an edition in English, and made Bunner assistanteditor. It was a happy choice. He soon became editor-in-chief, and underhis direction the paper became not only the best humorous journal of itstime, but a powerful influence in politics as well. Bunner wrote notonly editorials, humorous verse, short stories, and titles for pictures, but often suggested the cartoons, which were an important feature of thepaper. 

Outside the office he was a delightful conversationalist. His friendsBrander Matthews, Lawrence Hutton and others speak of his ready wit, hiskindness of heart, and his wonderfully varied store of information. Hewas a constant reader, and a good memory enabled him to retain what heread. It is said that one could hardly name a poem that he had not read, and it was odds but that he could quote its best lines. Next to reading, his chief pleasure was in wandering about odd corners of the city, especially the foreign quarters. He knew all the queer littlerestaurants and queer little shops in these places. 

His first literary work of note was a volume of poems, happily entitled_Airs from Arcady_. It contains verses both grave and gay: one of thecleverest is called "Home, Sweet Home, with Variations. " He writes thepoem first in the style of Swinburne, then of Bret Harte, then of AustinDobson, then of Oliver Goldsmith and finally of Walt Whitman. The bookalso showed his skill in the use of French forms of verse, as in thisdainty triolet:

 A PITCHER OF MIGNONETTE

 A pitcher of mignonette In a tenement's highest casement: Queer sort of flower-pot--yet That pitcher of mignonette Is a garden in heaven set, To the little sick child in the basement-- The pitcher of mignonette In the tenement's highest casement. 

The last poem in the book, called "To Her, " was addressed to Miss AliceLearned, whom he married soon after, and to whom, as "A. L. B. " all hislater books were dedicated. Soon after his marriage he moved to Nutley, New Jersey. Here he was not only the editor and man of letters but theneighbor who could always be called on in time of need, and the citizenwho took an active part in the community life, helping to organize theVillage Improvement Society, one of the first of its kind. 

He followed up his first volume by two short novels, _The Midge_ and_The Story of a New York House_. Then he undertook the writing of theshort story, his first book being _Zadoc Pine and other Stories_. Thetitle story of this book contains a very humorous and faithfuldelineation of a New Englander who is transplanted to a New Jerseysuburb. Soon after writing this he began to read the short stories ofGuy de Maupassant. He admired them so much that he half translated, halfadapted a number of them, and published them under the title _Made inFrance_. Then he tried writing stories of his own, in the manner of deMaupassant, and produced in _Short Sixes_ a group of stories which aremodels of concise narrative, crisply told, artistic in form, and oftenwith a touch of surprise at the end. Other volumes of short stories are_More Short Sixes_, and _Love in Old Cloathes_. _Jersey Street andJersey Lane_ was a book which grew out of his Nutley life. He also wrotea play, _The Tower of Babel_, which was produced by Marie Wainwright in1883. He died at Nutley, May 11, 1896. He was one of the first Americanauthors to develop the short story as we know it to-day, and few of hissuccessors have surpassed him in the light, sure style and the firmnessof construction which are characteristic of his later work. 

SOCIETY IN OUR TOWN

_Life in a small town, which means any place of less than a hundredthousand people, is more interesting than life in a big city. Bothplaces have their notables, but in the small town you know these people, in the city you only read about them in the papers. _ IN OUR TOWN _is aseries of portraits of the people of a typical small city of the MiddleWest, seen through the keen eyes of a newspaper editor. This story tellshow the question of the social leadership of the town was finallysettled. _

THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP

BY

WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE

What a dreary waste life in our office must have been before MissLarrabee came to us to edit a society page for the paper! To be sure wehad known in a vague way that there were lines of social cleavage in thetown; that there were whist clubs, and dancing clubs and women's clubs, and in a general way that the women who composed these clubs made up ourbest society, and that those benighted souls beyond the pale of theseclubs were out of the caste. We knew that certain persons whose nameswere always handed in on the lists of guests at parties were what wecalled "howling swells, " but it remained for Miss Larrabee to sort outten or a dozen of these "howling swells, " who belonged to the strictestsocial caste in town, and call them "howling dervishes. " Incidentally itmay be said that both Miss Larrabee and her mother were dervishes, butthat did not prevent her from making sport of them. From Miss Larrabeewe learned that the high priestess of the howling dervishes of oursociety was Mrs. Mortimer Conklin, known by the sisterhood of the mosqueas Priscilla Winthrop. We in our office had never heard her called bythat name, but Miss Larrabee explained, rather elaborately, that unlessone was permitted to speak of Mrs. Conklin thus, one was quite beyondthe hope of a social heaven. 

In the first place, Priscilla Winthrop was Mrs. Conklin's maiden name;in the second place, it links her with the Colonial Puritan stock ofwhich she is so justly proud--being scornful of mere Daughters of theRevolution--and finally, though Mrs. Conklin is a grandmother, hermaiden name seems to preserve the sweet, vague illusion of girlhoodwhich Mrs. Conklin always carries about her like the shadow of a dream. And Miss Larrabee punctuated this with a wink which we took to be aquotation mark, and she went on with her work. So we knew we had beenlistening to the language used in the temple. 

Our town was organized fifty years ago by Abolitionists from NewEngland, and twenty years ago, when Alphabetical Morrison was gettingout one of the numerous boom editions of his real estate circular, heprinted an historical article therein in which he said that PriscillaWinthrop was the first white child born on the town site. Her father wasterritorial judge, afterward member of the State Senate, and after tenyears spent in mining in the far West, died in the seventies, therichest man in the State. It was known that he left Priscilla, his onlychild, half a million dollars in government bonds. 

She was the first girl in our town to go away to school. Naturally, shewent to Oberlin, famous in those days for admitting colored students. But she finished her education at Vassar, and came back so much of ayoung lady that the town could hardly contain her. She married MortimerConklin, took him to the Centennial on a wedding trip, came home, rebuilt her father's house, covering it with towers and minarets andsteeples, and scroll-saw fretwork, and christened it Winthrop Hall. Sheerected a store building on Main Street, that Mortimer might have aluxurious office on the second floor, and then settled down to theserious business of life, which was building up a titled aristocracy ina Kansas town. 

The Conklin children were never sent to the public schools, but had agoverness, yet Mortimer Conklin, who was always alert for the call, could not understand why the people never summoned him to any office ofhonor or trust. He kept his brass signboard polished, went to his officepunctually every morning at ten o'clock, and returned home to dinner atfive, and made clients wait ten minutes in the outer office before theycould see him--at least so both of them say, and there were no others inall the years. He shaved every day, wore a frock-coat and a high hat tochurch--where for ten years he was the only male member of theEpiscopalian flock--and Mrs. Conklin told the women that altogether hewas a credit to his sex and his family--a remark which has passed aboutribaldly in town for a dozen years, though Mortimer Conklin never knewthat he was the subject of a town joke. Once he rebuked a man in thebarber shop for speaking of feminine extravagance, and told the shopthat he did not stint his wife, that when she asked him for money healways gave it to her without question, and that if she wanted a dresshe told her to buy it and send the bill to him. And we are such a politepeople that no one in the crowded shop laughed--until Mortimer Conklinwent out. 

Of course at the office we have known for twenty-five years what the menthought of Mortimer, but not until Miss Larrabee joined the force did weknow that among the women Mrs. Conklin was considered an oracle. MissLarrabee said that her mother has a legend that when Priscilla Winthropbrought home from Boston the first sealskin sacque ever worn in town shegave a party for it, and it lay in its box on the big walnut bureau inthe spare room of the Conklin mansion in solemn state, whileseventy-five women salaamed to it. After that Priscilla Winthrop was thetown authority on sealskins. When any member of the town nobility had anew sealskin, she took it humbly to Priscilla Winthrop to pass judgmentupon it. If Priscilla said it was London-dyed, its owner pranced away onclouds of glory; but if she said it was American-dyed, its owner crawledaway in shame, and when one admired the disgraced garment, the martyredowner smiled with resigned sweetness and said humbly: "Yes--but it'sonly American-dyed, you know. "

No dervish ever questioned the curse of the priestess. The only time arevolt was imminent was in the autumn of 1884 when the Conklinsreturned from their season at Duxbury, Massachusetts, and Mrs. Conklintook up the carpets in her house, heroically sold all of them at thesecond-hand store, put in new waxed floors and spread down rugs. Thetown uprose and hooted; the outcasts and barbarians in the Methodistsand Baptist Missionary Societies rocked the Conklin home with theirmerriment, and ten dervishes with set faces bravely met the onslaughtsof the savages; but among themselves in hushed whispers, behind lockeddoors, the faithful wondered if there was not a mistake some place. However, when Priscilla Winthrop assured them that in all the best homesin Boston rugs were replacing carpets, their souls were at peace. 

All this time we at the office knew nothing of what was going on. Weknew that the Conklins devoted considerable time to society; butAlphabetical Morrison explained that by calling attention to the factthat Mrs. Conklin had prematurely gray hair. He said a woman withprematurely gray hair was as sure to be a social leader as a spottedhorse is to join a circus. But now we know that Colonel Morrison's viewwas a superficial one, for he was probably deterred from going deeperinto the subject by his dislike for Mortimer Conklin, who invested aquarter of a million dollars of the Winthrop fortune in the Wichitaboom, and lost it. Colonel Morrison naturally thought as long as Conklinwas going to lose that money he could have lost it just as well at homein the "Queen City of the Prairies, " giving the Colonel a chance to win. And when Conklin, protecting his equities in Wichita, sent a hundredthousand dollars of good money after the quarter million of bad money, Colonel Morrison's grief could find no words; though he did findlanguage for his wrath. When the Conklins draped their Oriental rugs forairing every Saturday over the veranda and portico railings of the housefront, Colonel Morrison accused the Conklins of hanging out their stampcollection to let the neighbors see it. This was the only side of therug question we ever heard in our office until Miss Larrabee came; thenshe told us that one of the first requirements of a howling dervish wasto be able to quote from Priscilla Winthrop's Rug book from memory. TheRug book, the China book and the Old Furniture book were the threesacred scrolls of the sect. 

All this was news to us. However, through Colonel Morrison, we hadreceived many years ago another sidelight on the social status of theConklins. It came out in this way: Time honored custom in our townallows the children of a home where there is an outbreak of socialrevelry, whether a church festival or a meeting of the Cold-Nosed WhistClub, to line up with the neighbor children on the back stoop or in thekitchen, like human vultures, waiting to lick the ice-cream freezer andto devour the bits of cake and chicken salad that are left over. ColonelMorrison told us that no child was ever known to adorn the back yard ofthe Conklin home while a social cataclysm was going on, but that whenMrs. Morrison entertained the Ladies' Literary League, children from theholy Conklin family went home from his back porch with their facessmeared with chicken croquettes and their hands sticky with jellycake. 

This story never gained general circulation in town, but even if it hadbeen known of all men it would not have shaken the faith of thedevotees. For they did not smile when Priscilla Winthrop began to referto old Frank Hagan, who came to milk the Conklin cow and curry theConklin horse, as "François, the man, " or to call the girl who did thecooking and general housework "Cosette, the maid, " though every one ofthe dozen other women in town whom "Cosette, the maid" had worked forknew that her name was Fanny Ropes. And shortly after that the homes ofthe rich and the great over on the hill above Main Street began to fillwith Lisettes and Nanons and Fanchons, and Mrs. Julia Neal Worthingtoncalled her girl "Grisette, " explaining that they had always had aGrisette about the house since her mother first went to housekeeping inPeoria, Illinois, and it sounded so natural to hear the name that theyalways gave it to a new servant. This story came to the office throughthe Young Prince, who chuckled over it during the whole hour he consumedin writing Ezra Worthington's obituary. 

Miss Larrabee says that the death of Ezra Worthington marks such adistinct epoch in the social life of the town that we must set downhere--even if the narrative of the Conklins halts for a moment--how theWorthingtons rose and flourished. Julia Neal, the eldest daughter ofThomas Neal--who lost the "O" before his name somewhere between thedocks of Dublin and the west bank of the Missouri River--was for tenyears principal of the ward school in that part of our town known as"Arkansaw, " where her term of service is still remembered as the "reignof terror. " It was said of her then that she could whip any man in theward--and would do it if he gave her a chance. The same manner whichmade the neighbors complain that Julia Neal carried her head too high, later in life, when she had money to back it, gave her what the women ofthe State Federation called a "regal air. " In her early thirties shemarried Ezra Worthington, bachelor, twenty years her senior. EzraWorthington was at that time, had been for twenty years before, andcontinued to be until his death, proprietor of the Worthington Poultryand Produce Commission Company. He was owner of the stockyards, president of the Worthington State Bank, vice-president, treasurer andgeneral manager of the Worthington Mercantile Company, and owner of fivebrick buildings on Main Street. He bought one suit of clothes every fiveyears whether he needed it or not, never let go of a dollar unless theGoddess of Liberty on it was black in the face, and died rated "at$350, 000" by all the commercial agencies in the country. And the firstthing Mrs. Worthington did after the funeral was to telephone to thebank and ask them to send her a hundred dollars. 

The next important thing she did was to put a heavy, immovable granitemonument over the deceased so that he would not be restless, and thenshe built what is known in our town as the Worthington Palace. It makesthe Markley mansion which cost $25, 000 look like a barn. TheWorthingtons in the life-time of Ezra had ventured no further into thesocial whirl of the town than to entertain the new Presbyterian preacherat tea, and to lend their lawn to the King's Daughters for a social, sending a bill in to the society for the eggs used in the coffee and thegasoline used in heating it. 

To the howling dervishes who surrounded Priscilla Winthrop theWorthingtons were as mere Christian dogs. It was not until three yearsafter Ezra Worthington's death that the glow of the rising Worthingtonsun began to be seen in the Winthrop mosque. During those three yearsMrs. Worthington had bought and read four different sets of the besthundred books, had consumed the Chautauque course, had prepared anddelivered for the Social Science Club, which she organized, five papersranging in subject from the home life of Rameses I. , through a Survey ofthe Forces Dominating Michael Angelo, to the Influence of EsotericBuddhism on Modern Political Tendencies. More than that, she had beenelected president of the City Federation clubs and being a delegate tothe National Federation from the State, was talked of for the StateFederation Presidency. When the State Federation met in our town, Mrs. Worthington gave a reception for the delegates in the WorthingtonPalace, a feature of which was a concert by a Kansas City organist onthe new pipe-organ which she had erected in the music-room of her house, and despite the fact that the devotees of the Priscilla shrine said thatthe crowd was distinctly mixed and not at all representative of our bestsocial grace and elegance, there is no question but that Mrs. Worthington's reception made a strong impression upon the best localsociety. The fact that, as Miss Larrabee said, "Priscilla Winthrop wasso nice about it, " also may be regarded as ominous. But the women wholent Mrs. Worthington the spoons and forks for the occasion weredelighted, and formed a phalanx about her, which made up in numbers whatit might have lacked in distinction. Yet while Mrs. Worthington was inEurope the faithful routed the phalanx, and Mrs. Conklin returned fromher summer in Duxbury with half a carload of old furniture from HarrisonSampson's shop and gave a talk to the priestesses of the inner temple on"Heppelwhite in New England. "

Miss Larrabee reported the affair for our paper, giving the small listof guests and the long line of refreshments--which includedalligator-pear salad, right out of the Smart Set Cook Book. Moreover, when Jefferson appeared in Topeka that fall, Priscilla Winthrop, who hadmet him through some of her Duxbury friends in Boston, invited him torun down for a luncheon with her and the members of the royal family whosurrounded her. It was the proud boast of the defenders of the Winthropfaith in town that week, that though twenty-four people sat down to thetable, not only did all the men wear frock coats--not only did UncleCharlie Haskins of String Town wear the old Winthrop butler's liverywithout a wrinkle in it, and with only the faint odor of mothballs tomingle with the perfume of the roses--but (and here the voices of thefollowers of the prophet dropped in awe) not a single knife or fork orspoon or napkin was borrowed! After that, when any of the sisterhood hadoccasion to speak of the absent Mrs. Worthington, whose house was filledwith new mahogany and brass furniture, they referred to her as theDuchess of Grand Rapids, which gave them much comfort. 

But joy is short-lived. When Mrs. Worthington came back from Europe andopened her house to the City Federation, and gave a coloredlantern-slide lecture on "An evening with the Old Masters, " servingpunch from her own cut-glass punch bowl instead of renting thehand-painted crockery bowl of the queensware store, the old dull paincame back into the hearts of the dwellers in the inner circle. Then justin the nick of time Mrs. Conklin went to Kansas City and was operatedon for appendicitis. She came back pale and interesting, and gave herclub a paper called "Hospital Days, " fragrant with iodoform and Henley'spoems. Miss Larrabee told us that it was almost as pleasant as anoperation on one's self to hear Mrs. Conklin tell about hers. And theythought it was rather brutal--so Miss Larrabee afterward told us--whenMrs. Worthington went to the hospital one month, and gave her famousDelsarte lecture course the next month, and explained to the women thatif she wasn't as heavy as she used to be it was because she had hadeverything cut out of her below the windpipe. It seemed to the templepriestesses that, considering what a serious time poor dear PriscillaWinthrop had gone through, Mrs. Worthington was making light of seriousthings. 

There is no doubt that the formal rebellion of Mrs. Worthington, Duchessof Grand Rapids, and known of the town's nobility as the Pretender, began with the hospital contest. The Pretender planted her siege-gunsbefore the walls of the temple of the priestess, and prepared forbusiness. The first manoeuver made by the beleaguered one was to give aluncheon in the mosque, at which, though it was midwinter, freshtomatoes and fresh strawberries were served, and a real authoress fromBoston talked upon John Fiske's philosophy and, in the presence of theadmiring guests, made a new kind of salad dressing for the fresh lettuceand tomatoes. Thirty women who watched her forgot what John Fiske'stheory of the cosmos is, and thirty husbands who afterward ate thatsalad dressing have learned to suffer and be strong. But that saladdressing undermined the faith of thirty mere men--raw outlanders to besure--in the social omniscience of Priscilla Winthrop. Of course theydid not see it made; the spell of the enchantress was not over them; butin their homes they maintained that if Priscilla Winthrop didn't knowany more about cosmic philosophy than to pay a woman forty dollars tomake a salad dressing like that--and the whole town knows that was theprice--the vaunted town of Duxbury, Massachusetts, with its oldfurniture and new culture, which Priscilla spoke of in such repressedecstasy, is probably no better than Manitou, Colorado, where they gettheir Indian goods from Buffalo, New York. 

Such is the perverse reasoning of man. And Mrs. Worthington, havinglived with considerable of a man for fifteen years, hearing echoes ofthis sedition, attacked the fortification of the faithful on its weakestside. She invited the thirty seditious husbands with their wives to abeefsteak dinner, where she heaped their plates with planked sirloin, garnished the sirloin with big, fat, fresh mushrooms, and topped off themeal with a mince pie of her own concoction, which would make a manleave home to follow it. She passed cigars at the table, and after theguests went into the music-room ten old men with ten old fiddlesappeared and contested with old-fashioned tunes for a prize, after whichthe company danced four quadrilles and a Virginia reel. The men threwdown their arms going home and went over in a body to the Pretender. Butin a social conflict men are mere non-combatants, and their surrenderdid not seriously injure the cause that they deserted. 

The war went on without abatement. During the spring that followed thewinter of the beefsteak dinner many skirmishes, minor engagements, ambushes and midnight raids occurred. But the contest was not decisive. For purposes of military drill, the defenders of the Winthrop faithformed themselves into a Whist Club. _The_ Whist Club they called it, just as they spoke of Priscilla Winthrop's gowns as "the black and whiteone, " "the blue brocade, " "the white china silk, " as if no other blackand white or blue brocade or white china silk gowns had been created inthe world before and could not be made again by human hands. So, in thelanguage of the inner sanctuary, there was "The Whist Club, " to theexclusion of all other possible human Whist Clubs under the stars. Whensummer came the Whist Club fled as birds to the mountains--savePriscilla Winthrop, who went to Duxbury, and came home with a brasswarming-pan and a set of Royal Copenhagen china that were set up as holyobjects in the temple. 

But Mrs. Worthington went to the National Federation of Women's Clubs, made the acquaintance of the women there who wore clothes from Paris, began tracing her ancestry back to the Maryland Calverts--on hermother's side of the house--brought home a membership in the Daughtersof the Revolution, the Colonial Dames and a society which referred toCharles I. As "Charles Martyr, " claimed a Stuart as the rightful king ofEngland, affecting to score the impudence of King Edward in sitting onanother's throne. More than this, Mrs. Worthington had secured thepromise of Mrs. Ellen Vail Montgomery, Vice-President of the NationalFederation, to visit Cliff Crest, as Mrs. Worthington called theWorthington mansion, and she turned up her nose at those who worshipedunder the towers, turrets and minarets of the Conklin mosque, and playedthe hose of her ridicule on their outer wall that she might have itspotless for a target when she got ready to raze it with her big gun. 

The week that Ellen Vail Montgomery came to town was a busy one for MissLarrabee. We turned over the whole fourth page of the paper to her for adaily society page, and charged the Bee Hive and the White Front DryGoods store people double rates to put their special advertisements onthat page while the "National Vice, " as the Young Prince called her, wasin town. For the "National Vice" brought the State President and twoState Vices down, also four District Presidents and six District Vices, who, as Miss Larrabee said, were monsters "of so frightful mien, that tobe hated need but to be seen. " The entire delegation of visitingstateswomen--Vices and Virtues and Beatitudes as we called them--wereentertained by Mrs. Worthington at Cliff Crest, and there was so muchFederation politics going on in our town that the New York _Sun_ tookfive hundred words about it by wire, and Colonel Alphabetical Morrisonsaid that with all those dressed-up women about he felt as though he wasliving in a Sunday supplement. 

The third day of the ghost-dance at Cliff Crest was to be the day of thebig event--as the office parlance had it. The ceremonies began atsunrise with a breakfast to which half a dozen of the captains and kingsof the besieging host of the Pretender were bidden. It seems to havebeen a modest orgy, with nothing more astonishing than a new gold-bandchina set to dishearten the enemy. By ten o'clock Priscilla Winthrop andthe Whist Club had recovered from that; but they had been asked to theluncheon--the star feature of the week's round of gayety. It is just aswell to be frank, and say that they went with fear and trembling. Panicand terror were in their ranks, for they knew a crisis was at hand. Itcame when they were "ushered into the dining-hall, " as our paper sograndly put it, and saw in the great oak-beamed room a table laid on thepolished bare wood--a table laid for forty-eight guests, with a doilyfor every plate, and every glass, and every salt-cellar, and--here themosque fell on the heads of the howling dervishes--forty-eightsoup-spoons, forty-eight silver-handled knives and forks; forty-eightbutter-spreaders, forty-eight spoons, forty-eight salad forks, forty-eight ice-cream spoons, forty-eight coffee spoons. Little did itavail the beleaguered party to peep slyly under the spoon-handles--theword "Sterling" was there, and, more than that, a large, severely plain"W" with a crest glared up at them from every piece of silver. Theservice had not been rented. They knew their case was hopeless. And sothey ate in peace. 

When the meal was over it was Mrs. Ellen Vail Montgomery, in herthousand-dollar gown, worshiped by the eyes of forty-eight women, whoput her arm about Priscilla Winthrop and led her into the conservatory, where they had "a dear, sweet quarter of an hour, " as Mrs. Montgomeryafterward told her hostess. In that dear, sweet quarter of an hourPriscilla Winthrop Conklin unbuckled her social sword and handed it tothe conqueror, in that she agreed absolutely with Mrs. Montgomery thatMrs. Worthington was "perfectly lovely, " that she was "delighted to beof any service" to Mrs. Worthington; that Mrs. Conklin "was sure no oneelse in our town was so admirably qualified for National Vice" as Mrs. Worthington, and that "it would be such a privilege" for Mrs. Conklin tosuggest Mrs. Worthington's name for the office. And then Mrs. Montgomery, "National Vice" and former State Secretary for Vermont ofthe Colonial Dames, kissed Priscilla Winthrop and they came forthwet-eyed and radiant, holding each other's hands. When the company hadbeen hushed by the magic of a State Vice and two District Virtues, Priscilla Winthrop rose and in the sweetest Kansas Bostonese told theladies that she thought this an eminently fitting place to let thevisiting ladies know how dearly our town esteems its most distinguishedtownswoman, Mrs. Julia Neal Worthington, and that entirely without hersolicitation, indeed quite without her knowledge, the women of ourtown--and she hoped of our beloved State--were ready now to announcethat they were unanimous in their wish that Mrs. Worthington should beNational Vice-President of the Federation of Women's Clubs, and thatshe, the speaker, had entered the contest with her whole soul to bringthis end to pass. Then there was hand-clapping and handkerchief wavingand some tears, and a little good, honest Irish hugging, and in thetwilight two score of women filed down through the formal garden ofCliff Crest and walked by twos and threes in to the town. 

There was the usual clatter of home-going wagons; lights winked out ofkitchen windows; the tinkle of distant cow-bells was in the air; on MainStreet the commerce of the town was gently ebbing, and man and natureseemed utterly oblivious of the great event that had happened. Thecourse of human events was not changed; the great world rolled on, whilePriscilla Winthrop went home to a broken shrine to sit among the thepotsherds. 

WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE

(Written by Mr. White especially for this book. )

I was born in Emporia, Kansas, February 10, 1868, when Emporia was apioneer village a hundred miles from a railroad. My father came toEmporia in 1859 and my mother in 1855. She was a pioneer school teacherand he a pioneer doctor. She was pure bred Irish, and he of Yankeelineage since 1639. When I was a year old, Emporia became too effete formy parents, and they moved to El Dorado, Kansas. There I grew up. ElDorado was a town of a dozen houses, located on the banks of the Walnut, a sluggish, but a clear and beautiful prairie stream, rock bottom, andspring fed. I grew up in El Dorado, a prairie village boy; went to thelarge stone school house that "reared its awful form" on the hill abovethe town before there were any two-story buildings in the place. 

In 1884, I was graduated from the town high school, and went to theCollege of Emporia for a year; worked a year as a printer's devil;learned something of the printer's trade; went to school for anotheryear, working in the afternoons and Saturdays at the printer's case;became a reporter on the _Emporia News_; later went to the StateUniversity for three years. After more or less studying and working onthe Lawrence papers, I went back to El Dorado as manager of the _ElDorado Republican_ for State Senator T. B. Murdock. 

From the _El Dorado Republican_, I went to Kansas City to work for the_Kansas City Journal_, and at 24 became an editorial writer on the_Kansas City Star_. For three years I worked on the _Star_, during whichtime I married Miss Sallie Lindsay, a Kansas City, Kansas, schoolteacher. In 1895 I bought the _Emporia Gazette_ on credit, without acent in money, and chiefly with the audacity and impudence of youth. Itwas then a little paper; I paid three thousand dollars for it, and Ihave lived in Emporia ever since. 

In 1896, I published a book of short stories called _The Real Issue_; in1899, another book of short stories called _The Court of Boyville_. In1901, I published a third book of short stories called _Stratagems andSpoils_; in 1906, _In Our Town_. In 1909, I published my first novel, _ACertain Rich Man_. In 1910, I published a book of political essayscalled _The Old Order Changeth_; in 1916, a volume of short storiesentitled _God's Puppets_. A volume half novel and half travel sketchescalled _The Martial Adventures of Henry & Me_ filled the gap between mytwo novels; and the second novel, _In the Heart of a Fool_ was publishedin 1918. 

I am a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters; the ShortBallot Association; the International Peace Society; National CivicFederation; National Academy of Political Science; have honorary degreesfrom the College of Emporia, Baker University, and Columbia Universityof the City of New York; was regent of the Kansas State University from1905 to 1913. Politically I am a Republican and was elected NationalRepublican Committeeman from Kansas in 1912, but resigned to beProgressive National Committeeman from Kansas that year. I am now amember of the Republican National Committee on Platforms and Policiesappointed by the National Chairman, Will S. Hays. I am a trustee of theCollege of Emporia; a member of the Congregational Church, and of theElks Lodge, and of no other organization. WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE. 

To the above biography a few items about Mr. White's literary work maybe added. It was through an editorial that he first became famous. Thisappeared in the _Emporia Gazette_ in 1896, with the title, "What's thematter with Kansas?" It contained so much good sense, and was writtenin such vigorous English that it was copied in newspapers all over thecountry. Perhaps no other editorial ever brought such sudden recognitionto its author. In the same year he published his first book, _The RealIssue_, a volume of short stories. Some of them pictured the life of asmall town, some centered about politics, and some were stories of smallboys. These three subjects were the themes of most of Mr. White's laterbooks. 

_Stratagems and Spoils_, a volume of short stories, dealt chiefly withpolitics, as seen from the inside. _In Our Town_, from which "ThePassing of Priscilla Winthrop" is taken, belongs to the studies ofsmall-town life. His first novel, _A Certain Rich Man_, was published in1909. Its theme is the development of an American multi-millionaire, from his beginning as a small business man with a reputation for closedealing, his success, his reaching out to greater schemes, growing moreand more unscrupulous in his methods, until at last he achieves thegreat wealth he had sought, but in winning it he loses his soul. 

This book was written during a vacation in the Colorado mountains. Hisfamily were established in a log cabin, and he set up a tent near by fora workshop. This is his account of his method of writing:

 My working day was supposed to begin at nine o'clock in the morning, but the truth is I seldom reached the tent before ten. Then it took me some time to get down to work. From then on until late in the afternoon I would sit at my typewriter, chew my tongue, and pound away. Each night I read to my wife what I had written that day, and Mrs. White would criticise it. While my work was redhot I couldn't get any perspective on it--each day's installment seemed to me the finest literature I had ever read. She didn't always agree with me. When she disapproved of anything I threw it away--after a row--and re-wrote it. 

In his next book, _The Old Order Changeth_, Mr. White turned aside fromfiction to write a series of papers dealing with various reformmovements in our national life. He shows how through these much has beendone to regain for the people the control of municipal and stateaffairs. The material for this book was drawn largely from Mr. White'sparticipation in political affairs. 

In 1917 he was sent to France as an observer by the American Red Cross. The lighter side of what he saw there was told in _The MartialAdventures of Henry and Me_. His latest book is a long novel, _In theHeart of a Fool_, another study of American life of to-day. 

All in all, he stands as one of the chief interpreters in fiction of thespirit of the Middle West, --a section of our country which someobservers say is the most truly American part of America. 

A PAIR OF LOVERS

_The typical love story begins by telling us how two young people fallin love, allows us to eavesdrop at a proposal, with soft moonlighteffects, and then requests our presence at a wedding. Or perhaps anelopement precedes the wedding, which gives us an added thrill. Thescene may be laid anywhere, the period may be the present or any timeback to the Middle Ages, (apparently people did not fall in love at anyearlier periods), but the formula remains the same. O. Henry wrote alove story that does not follow the formula. He called it "The Gift ofthe Magi. "_

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

BY

O. HENRY

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of itwas in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing thegrocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burnedwith the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And thenext day would be Christmas. 

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couchand howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection thatlife is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with snifflespredominating. 

While the mistress of the house is gradually subsiding from the firststage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 perweek. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had thatword on the lookout for the mendicancy squad. 

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. JamesDillingham Young. "

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period ofprosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when theincome was shrunk to $20, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, asthough they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest andunassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home andreached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is allvery good. 

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking agray fence in a gray backyard. To-morrow would be Christmas Day, and shehad only $1. 87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been savingevery penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars aweek doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1. 87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many ahappy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Somethingfine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to beingworthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. 

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you haveseen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art. 

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Hereyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color withintwenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to itsfull length. 

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in whichthey both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had beenhis father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had theQueen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would havelet her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate HerMajesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with allhis treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out hiswatch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard fromenvy. 

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining likea cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itselfalmost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously andquickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear ortwo splashed on the worn red carpet. 

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl ofskirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she flutteredout the door and down the stairs to the street. 

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of AllKinds. " One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie. "

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della. 

"I buy hair, " said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight atthe looks of it. "

Down rippled the brown cascade. 

"Twenty dollars, " said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand. 

"Give it to me quick, " said Della. 

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashedmetaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present. 

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned allof them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain, simple and chaste indesign, properly proclaiming its value by substance and not bymeretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was evenworthy of The Watch. 

As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollarsthey took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. Withthat chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time inany company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on thesly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of achain. 

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudenceand reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and wentto work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which isalways a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task. 

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curlsthat made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked ather reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically. 

"If Jim doesn't kill me, " she said to herself, "before he takes a secondlook at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But whatcould I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"

At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the backof the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. 

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat onthe corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then sheheard his step on the stair away down on the first flight and she turnedwhite for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayersabout the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered:

"Please God, make him think I am still pretty. "

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin andvery serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdenedwith a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. 

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent ofquail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression inthem that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentimentsthat she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly withthat peculiar expression on his face. 

Della wriggled off the table and went to him. 

"Jim, darling, " she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cutoff and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas withoutgiving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? Ijust had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!'Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice--what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you. "

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had notarrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor. 

"Cut it off and sold it, " said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously. 

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy. 

"You needn't look for it, " said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold andgone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered, " she went on with a suddenserious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall Iput the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to awake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny someinconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or amillion a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit wouldgive you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that wasnot among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. 

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table. 

"Don't make any mistake, Dell, " he said, "about me. I don't thinkthere's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo thatcould make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that packageyou may see why you had me going a while at first. "

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then anecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change tohysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment ofall the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. 

For there lay The combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della hadworshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoiseshell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautifulvanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart hadsimply craved and yearned over them without the least hope ofpossession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should haveadorned the coveted adornments were gone. 

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look upwith dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to himeagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash withreflection of her bright and ardent spirit. 

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll haveto look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. Iwant to see how it looks on it. "

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his handsunder the back of his head and smiled. 

"Dell, " said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em awhile. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to getthe money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on. "

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who broughtgifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of givingChristmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. Andhere I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of twofoolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each otherthe greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise ofthese days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were thewisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. 

O. HENRY

He came to New York in 1902 almost unknown. At his death eight yearslater he was the best known writer of short stories in America. His lifewas as full of ups and downs, and of strange turns of fortune, as one ofhis own stories. William Sidney Porter, who always signed his stories asO. Henry, was born in Greenboro, North Carolina, September 11, 1862. Hismother died when he was but three years old; and an aunt, Miss EvelinaPorter, cared for him and gave him nearly all his education. Books, too, were his teachers. He says that between his thirteenth and nineteenthyears he did more reading than in all the years since. His favoritebooks were _The Arabian Nights_, in Lane's translation, and Burton's_Anatomy of Melancholy_, an old English book in which bits of science, superstition and reflections upon life were strangely mingled. Otherbooks that he enjoyed were the works of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas. He early showed ability as acartoonist, and was noted among his friends as a good story teller. After school days he became a clerk in his uncle's drug store, and hereacquired that knowledge which he used to such good effect in storieslike "Makes the Whole World Kin" and "The Love Philtre of IkeySchoenstein. "

His health was not robust, and confinement in a drug store did notimprove it. A friend who was going to Texas invited him to go along, andfrom 1882 to 1884 he lived on a ranch, acting as cowboy, and at oddmoments studying French, German and Spanish. Then he went to Austin, where at various times he was clerk, editor, bookkeeper, draftsman, bankteller, actor and cartoonist. In 1887 he married Miss Athol Roach. Hebegan contributing short stories and humorous sketches to newspapers, and finally purchased a paper of his own, which he called _RollingStones_, a humorous weekly. After a year the paper failed, and theeditor went to Houston to become a reporter on the _Daily Post_. A yearlater, it was discovered that there were serious irregularities in thebank in which he had worked in Austin. Several arrests were made, and O. Henry was called to stand trial with others. He had not been guilty ofwrong doing, but the affairs of the bank had been so loosely managedthat he was afraid that he would be convicted, so he fled to CentralAmerica. After a year there, he heard that his wife's health wasfailing, and returned to Austin to give himself up. He was found guilty, and sentenced to five years in the Ohio penitentiary. His wife diedbefore the trial. His time in prison was shortened by good behavior to alittle more than three years, ending in 1901. He wrote a number ofstories during this time, sending them to friends who in turn mailedthem to publishers. The editor of _Ainslie's Magazine_ had printedseveral of them and in 1902 he wrote to O. Henry urging him to come toNew York, and offering him a hundred dollars apiece for a dozen stories. He came, and from that time made New York his home, becoming very fondof Little Old-Bagdad-on-the-Subway as he called it. 

He had found the work which he wished to do, and he turned out storiesvery rapidly. These were first published in newspapers and magazines, then collected in book form. The first of these volumes, _Cabbages andKings_, had Central America as its setting. He said that while there hehad knocked around chiefly with refugees and consuls. _The Four Million_was a group of stories of New York; it contained some of his best tales, such as "The Gift of the Magi, " and "An Unfinished Story. " _The TrimmedLamp_ and _The Voice of the City_ also dealt with New York. _The GentleGrafter_ was a collection of stories about confidence men and "crooks. "The material for these narratives he had gathered from his companions inhis prison days. _Heart of the West_ reflects his days on a Texasranch. Other books, more or less miscellaneous in their locality, are_Roads of Destiny_, _Options_, _Strictly Business_, _Whirligigs_; and_Sixes and Sevens_. He died in New York, June 5, 1910. After his death avolume containing some of his earliest work was published under thetitle _Rolling Stones_. 

His choice of subjects is thus indicated in the preface to _The FourMillion_:

"Not very long ago some one invented the assertion that there were only'Four Hundred' people in New York who were really worth noticing. But awiser man has arisen--the census taker--and his larger estimate of humaninterest has been preferred in marking out the field of these littlestories of the 'Four Million. '"

It was the common man, --the clerk, the bartender, the policeman, thewaiter, the tramp, that O. Henry chose for his characters. He loved totalk to chance acquaintances on park benches or in cheap lodging houses, to see life from their point of view. His stories are often of thepicaresque type; a name given to a kind of story in which the hero is anadventurer, sometimes a rogue. He sees the common humanity, and theredeeming traits even in these. His plots usually have a turn ofsurprise at the end; sometimes the very last sentence suddenlyilluminates the whole story. His style is quick, nervous, often slangy;he is wonderfully dextrous in hitting just the right word or phrase. Hisdescriptions are notable for telling much in a few words. He has almostestablished a definite type of short story writing, and in many of thestories now written one may clearly see the influence of O. Henry. 

IN POLITICS

_Politics is democracy in action. If we believe in democracy, we mustrecognize in politics the instrument, however imperfect, through whichdemocracy works. Brand Whitlock knew politics, first as a politicalreporter, then as candidate for mayor in four campaigns, in each ofwhich he was successful. Under his administration the city of Toledobecame a better place to live in. In_ THE GOLD BRICK _he describes amunicipal campaign, as seen from the point of view of the newspaperoffice. _

THE GOLD BRICK

BY

BRAND WHITLOCK

Ten thousand dollars a year! Neil Kittrell left the office of the_Morning Telegraph_ in a daze. He was insensible of the raw Februaryair, heedless of sloppy pavements, the gray day had suddenly turnedgold. He could not realize it all at once; ten thousand a year--for himand Edith! His heart swelled with love of Edith, she had sacrificed somuch to become the wife of a man who had tried to make an artist ofhimself, and of whom fate, or economic determinism, or something, hadmade a cartoonist. What a surprise for her! He must hurry home. 

In this swelling of his heart he felt a love not only of Edith but ofthe whole world. The people he met seemed dear to him; he felt friendlywith every one, and beamed on perfect strangers with broad, cheerfulsmiles. He stopped to buy some flowers for Edith--daffodils, or tulips, which promised spring, and he took the daffodils, because the girl said:

"I think yellow is such a spirituelle color, don't you?" and inclinedher head in a most artistic manner. 

But daffodils, after all, which would have been much the day before, seemed insufficient in the light of new prosperity, and Kittrell boughta large azalea, beautiful in its graceful spread of pink blooms. 

"Where shall I send it?" asked the girl, whose cheeks were as pink asazaleas themselves. 

"I think I'll call a cab and take it to her myself, " said Kittrell. 

And she sighed over the romance of this rich young gentleman and thegirl of the azalea, who, no doubt, was as beautiful as the young womanwho was playing _Lottie, the Poor Saleslady_ at the Lyceum that veryweek. 

Kittrell and the azalea bowled along Claybourne Avenue; he leaned backon the cushions, and adopted the expression of ennui appropriate to thatthoroughfare. Would Edith now prefer Claybourne Avenue? With tenthousand a year they could, perhaps--and yet, at first it would be bestnot to put on airs, but to go right on as they were, in the flat. Thenthe thought came to him that now, as the cartoonist on the _Telegraph_, his name would become as well known in Claybourne Avenue as it had beenin the homes of the poor and humble during his years on the _Post_. Andhis thoughts flew to those homes where tired men at evening looked forhis cartoons and children laughed at his funny pictures. It gave him apang; he had felt a subtle bond between himself and all those thousandswho read the _Post_. It was hard to leave them. The _Post_ might beyellow, but as the girl had said, yellow was a spiritual color, and the_Post_ brought something into their lives--lives that were scorned bythe _Telegraph_ and by these people on the avenue. Could he make newfriends here where the cartoons he drew and the _Post_ that printed themhad been contemned, if not despised? His mind flew back to the dingyoffice of the _Post_; to the boys there, the whole good-natured, happy-go-lucky gang; and to Hardy--ah, Hardy!--who had been so good tohim, and given him his big chance, had taken such pains and interest, helping him with ideas and suggestions, criticism and sympathy. To tellHardy that he was going to leave him, here on the eve of thecampaign--and Clayton, the mayor, he would have to tell him, too--oh, the devil! Why must he think of these things now?

After all, when he had reached home, and had run up-stairs with the newsand the azalea, Edith did not seem delighted. 

"But, dearie, business is business, " he urged, "and we need the money!"

"Yes, I know; doubtless you're right. Only please don't say 'businessis business;' it isn't like you, and--"

"But think what it will mean--ten thousand a year!"

"Oh, Neil, I've lived on ten thousand a year before, and I never hadhalf the fun that I had when we were getting along on twelve hundred. "

"Yes, but then we were always dreaming of the day when I'd make a lot;we lived on that hope, didn't we?"

Edith laughed. "You used to say we lived on love. "

"You're not serious. " He turned to gaze moodily out of the window. Andthen she left the azalea, and perched on the flat arm of his chair. 

"Dearest, " she said, "I am serious. I know all this means to you. We'rehuman, and we don't like to 'chip at crusts like Hindus, ' even for thesake of youth and art. I never had illusions about love in a cottage andall that. Only, dear, I have been happy, so very happy, with you, because--well, because I was living in an atmosphere of honest purpose, honest ambition, and honest desire to do some good thing in the world. Ihad never known such an atmosphere before. At home, you know, father andUncle James and the boys--well, it was all money, money, money withthem, and they couldn't understand why I--"

"Could marry a poor newspaper artist? That's just the point. "

She put her hand to his lips. 

"Now, dear! If they couldn't understand, so much the worse for them. Ifthey thought it meant sacrifice to me, they were mistaken. I have beenhappy in this little flat; only--" she leaned back and inclined her headwith her eyes asquint--"only the paper in this room is atrocious; it's atypical landlord's selection--McGaw picked it out. You see what it meansto be merely rich. "

She was so pretty thus that he kissed her, and then she went on:

"And so, dear, if I didn't seem to be as impressed and delighted as youhoped to find me, it is because I was thinking of Mr. Hardy and thepoor, dear common little _Post_, and then--of Mr. Clayton. Did you thinkof him?"

"Yes. "

"You'll have to--to cartoon him?"

"I suppose so. "

The fact he had not allowed himself to face was close to both of them, and the subject was dropped until, just as he was going down-town--thistime to break the news to Hardy--he went into the room he sarcasticallysaid he might begin to call his studio, now that he was getting tenthousand a year, to look for a sketch he had promised Nolan for thesporting page. And there on his drawing-board was an unfinished cartoon, a drawing of the strong face of John Clayton. He had begun it a few daysbefore to use on the occasion of Clayton's renomination. It had been alabor of love, and Kittrell suddenly realized how good it was. He hadput into it all of his belief in Clayton, all of his devotion to thecause for which Clayton toiled and sacrificed, and in the simple lineshe experienced the artist's ineffable felicity; he had shown how good, how noble, how true a man Clayton was. All at once he realized thesensation the cartoon would produce, how it would delight and heartenClayton's followers, how it would please Hardy, and how it would touchClayton. It would be a tribute to the man and the friendship, but now atribute broken, unfinished. Kittrell gazed a moment longer, and in thatmoment Edith came. 

"The dear, beautiful soul!" she exclaimed softly. "Neil, it iswonderful. It is not a cartoon; it is a portrait. It shows what youmight do with a brush. "

Kittrell could not speak, and he turned the drawing-board to the wall. 

When he had gone, Edith sat and thought--of Neil, of the new position, of Clayton. He had loved Neil, and been so proud of his work; he hadshown a frank, naive pleasure in the cartoons Neil had made of him. Thatlast time he was there, thought Edith, he had said that without Neil the"good old cause, " as he called it, using Whitman's phrase, could neverhave triumphed in that town. And now, would he come again? Would he everstand in that room and, with his big, hearty laugh, clasp an arm aroundNeil's shoulder, or speak of her in his good friendly way as "the littlewoman?" Would he come now, in the terrible days of the approachingcampaign, for rest and sympathy--come as he used to come in othercampaigns, worn and weary from all the brutal opposition, thevilification and abuse and mud-slinging? She closed her eyes. She couldnot think that far. 

Kittrell found the task of telling Hardy just as difficult as heexpected it to be, but by some mercy it did not last long. Explanationhad not been necessary; he had only to make the first hesitatingapproaches, and Hardy understood. Hardy was, in a way, hurt; Kittrellsaw that, and rushed to his own defense:

"I hate to go, old man. I don't like it a little bit--but, you know, business is business, and we need the money. "

He even tried to laugh as he advanced this last conclusive reason, andHardy, for all he showed in voice or phrase, may have agreed with him. 

"It's all right, Kit, " he said. "I'm sorry; I wish we could pay youmore, but--well, good luck. "

That was all. Kittrell gathered up the few articles he had at theoffice, gave Nolan his sketch, bade the boys good-by--bade them good-byas if he were going on a long journey, never to see them more--and thenhe went. 

After he had made the break it did not seem so bad as he hadanticipated. At first things went on smoothly enough. The campaign hadnot opened, and he was free to exercise his talents outside thepolitical field. He drew cartoons dealing with banal subjects, touchingwith the gentle satire of his humorous pencil foibles which all theworld agreed about, and let vital questions alone. And he and Edithenjoyed themselves: indulged oftener in things they loved; went morefrequently to the theater; appeared at recitals; dined now and thendowntown. They began to realize certain luxuries they had not known fora long time--some he himself had never known, some that Edith had notknown since she left her father's home to become his bride. In moresubtle ways, too, Kittrell felt the change: there was a sense of largerleisure; the future beamed with a broader and brighter light; he formedplans, among which the old dream of going ere long to Paris for seriousstudy took its dignified place. And then there was the sensation hischange had created in the newspaper world; that the cartoons signed"Kit, " which formerly appeared in the _Post_, should now adorn the broadpage of the _Telegraph_ was a thing to talk about at the press club; thefact of his large salary got abroad in that little world as well, and, after the way of that world, managed to exaggerate itself, as most factsdid. He began to be sensible of attentions from men of prominence--smallthings, mere nods in the street, perhaps, or smiles in the theaterfoyer, but enough to show that they recognized him. What those childrenof the people, those working-men and women who used to be his unknownand admiring friends in the old days on the _Post_, thought ofhim--whether they missed him, whether they deplored his change as anapostasy or applauded it as a promotion--he did not know. He did notlike to think about it. 

But March came, and the politicians began to bluster like the season. Late one afternoon he was on his way to the office with a cartoon, thefirst in which he had seriously to attack Clayton. Benson, the managingeditor of the _Telegraph_, had conceived it, and Kittrell had worked onit that day in sickness of heart. Every line of this new presentation ofClayton had cut him like some biting acid; but he had worked on, tryingto reassure himself with the argument that he was a mere agent, devoidof personal responsibility. But it had been hard, and when Edith, afterher custom, had asked to see it, he had said:

"Oh, you don't want to see it; it's no good. "

"Is it of--him?" she had asked. 

And when he nodded she had gone away without another word. Now, as hehurried through the crowded streets, he was conscious that it was nogood indeed; and he was divided between the artist's regret and thefriend's joy in the fact. But it made him tremble. Was his hand toforget its cunning? And then, suddenly, he heard a familiar voice, andthere beside him, with his hand on his shoulder, stood the mayor. 

"Why, Neil, my boy, how are you?" he said, and he took Kittrell's handas warmly as ever. For a moment Kittrell was relieved, and then hisheart sank; for he had a quick realization that it was the coward withinhim that felt the relief, and the man the sickness. If Clayton hadreproached him, or cut him, it would have made it easier; but Claytondid none of these things, and Kittrell was irresistibly drawn to thesubject himself. 

"You heard of my--new job?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Clayton, "I heard. "

"Well--" Kittrell began. 

"I'm sorry, " Clayton said. 

"So was I, " Kittrell hastened to say. "But I felt it--well, a duty, someway--to Edith. You know--we--need the money. " And he gave the cynicallaugh that went with the argument. 

"What does _she_ think? Does she feel that way about it?"

Kittrell laughed, not cynically now, but uneasily and withembarrassment, for Clayton's blue eyes were on him, those eyes thatcould look into men and understand them so. 

"Of course you know, " Kittrell went on nervously, "there is nothingpersonal in this. We newspaper fellows simply do what we are told; weobey orders like soldiers, you know. With the policy of the paper wehave nothing to do. Just like Dick Jennings, who was a red-hotfree-trader and used to write free-trade editorials for the _Times_--hewent over to the _Telegraph_, you remember, and writes all thoseprotection arguments. "

The mayor did not seem to be interested in Dick Jennings, or in theethics of his profession. 

"Of course, you know I'm for you, Mr. Clayton, just exactly as I'vealways been. I'm going to vote for you. "

This did not seem to interest the mayor, either. 

"And, maybe, you know--I thought, perhaps, " he snatched at this brightnew idea that had come to him just in the nick of time; "that I mighthelp you by my cartoons in the _Telegraph_; that is, I might keep themfrom being as bad as they might--"

"But that wouldn't be dealing fairly with your new employers, Neil, " themayor said. 

Kittrell was making more and more a mess of this whole miserablebusiness, and he was basely glad when they reached the corner. 

"Well, good-by, my boy, " said the mayor, as they parted. "Remember me tothe little woman. "

Kittrell watched him as he went on down the avenue, swinging along inhis free way, the broad felt hat he wore riding above all the other hatsin the throng that filled the sidewalk; and Kittrell sighed in deepdepression. 

When he turned in his cartoon, Benson scanned it a moment, cocked hishead this side and that, puffed his briar pipe, and finally said:

"I'm afraid this is hardly up to you. This figure of Clayton, here--ithasn't got the stuff in it. You want to show him as he _is_. We want thepeople to know what a four-flushing, hypocritical, demagogicalblatherskite he is--with all his rot about the people and their damnedrights!"

Benson was all unconscious of the inconsistency of having concern for apeople he so despised, and Kittrell did not observe it, either. He wason the point of defending Clayton, but he restrained himself andlistened to Benson's suggestions. He remained at the office for twohours, trying to change the cartoon to Benson's satisfaction, with agrowing hatred of the work and a disgust with himself that now and thenalmost drove him to mad destruction. He felt like splashing the piecewith India ink, or ripping it with his knife. But he worked on, andsubmitted it again. He had failed, of course; failed to express in itthat hatred of a class which Benson unconsciously disguised as a hatredof Clayton, a hatred which Kittrell could not express because he did notfeel it; and he failed because art deserts her devotees when they arefalse to truth. 

"Well, it'll have to do, " said Benson, as he looked it over; "but let'shave a little more to the next one. Damn it! I wish I could draw. I'dcartoon the crook!"

In default of which ability, Benson set himself to write one of thosesavage editorials in which he poured out on Clayton that venom of whichhe seemed to have such an inexhaustible supply. 

But on one point Benson was right: Kittrell was not up to himself. Asthe campaign opened, as the city was swept with the excitement of it, with meetings at noon-day and at night, office-seekers flying about inautomobiles, walls covered with pictures of candidates, hand-billsscattered in the streets to swirl in the wild March winds, and menquarreling over whether Clayton or Ellsworth should be mayor, Kittrellhad to draw a political cartoon each day; and as he struggled with hiswork, less and less the old joy came to cheer and spur him on. To readthe ridicule, the abuse, which the _Telegraph_ heaped on Clayton, thedistortion of facts concerning his candidature, the unfair reports ofhis meetings, sickened him, and more than all, he was filled withdisgust as he tried to match in caricature these libels of the man he soloved and honored. It was bad enough to have to flatter Clayton'sopponent, to picture him as a noble, disinterested character, ready tosacrifice himself for the public weal. Into his pictures of this man, attired in the long black coat of conventional respectability, with thesmug face of pharisaism, he could get nothing but cant and hypocrisy;but in his caricatures of Clayton there was that which pained himworse--disloyalty, untruth, and now and then, to the discerning few whoknew the tragedy of Kittrell's soul, there was pity. And thus his workdeclined in value; lacking all sincerity, all faith in itself or itspurpose, it became false, uncertain, full of jarring notes, and, inshort, never once rang true. As for Edith, she never discussed his worknow; she spoke of the campaign little, and yet he knew she was deeplyconcerned, and she grew hot with resentment at the methods of the_Telegraph_. Her only consolation was derived from the _Post_, which ofcourse, supported Clayton; and the final drop of bitterness inKittrell's cup came one evening when he realized that she was followingwith sympathetic interest the cartoons in that paper. 

For the _Post_ had a new cartoonist, Banks, a boy whom Hardy had pickedup somewhere and was training to the work Kittrell had laid down. ToKittrell there was a cruel fascination in the progress Banks was making;he watched it with a critical, professional eye, at first withamusement, then with surprise, and now at last, in the discovery ofEdith's interest, with a keen jealousy of which he was ashamed. The boywas crude and untrained; his work was not to be compared withKittrell's, master of line that he was, but Kittrell saw that it had thething his work now lacked, the vital, primal thing--sincerity, belief, love. The spark was there, and Kittrell knew how Hardy would nurse thatspark and fan it, and keep it alive and burning until it shouldeventually blaze up in a fine white flame. And Kittrell realized, as thedays went by, that Banks' work was telling, and that his own wasfailing. He had, from the first missed the atmosphere of the _Post_, missed the _camaraderie_ of the congenial spirits there, animated by acommon purpose, inspired and led by Hardy, whom they all loved--loved ashe himself once loved him, loved as he loved him still--and dared notlook him in the face when they met!

He found the atmosphere of the _Telegraph_ alien and distasteful. Thereall was different; the men had little joy in their work, little interestin it, save perhaps the newspaper man's inborn love of a good story or abeat. They were all cynical, without loyalty or faith; they secretlymade fun of the _Telegraph_, of its editors and owners; they had nobelief in its cause; and its pretensions to respectability, its paradeof virtue, excited only their derision. And slowly it began to dawn onKittrell that the great moral law worked always and everywhere, even onnewspapers, and that there was reflected inevitably and logically in thework of the men on that staff the hatred, the lack of principle, thebigotry and intolerance of its proprietors; and this same lack ofprinciple tainted and made meretricious his own work, and enervated theeditorials so that the _Telegraph_, no matter how carefully edited orhow dignified in typographical appearance, was, nevertheless, withoutreal influence in the community. 

Meanwhile Clayton was gaining ground. It was less than two weeks beforeelection. The campaign waxed more and more bitter, and as the forcesopposed to him foresaw defeat, they became ugly in spirit, anddesperate. The _Telegraph_ took on a tone more menacing and brutal, andKittrell knew that the crisis had come. The might of the powers massedagainst Clayton appalled Kittrell; they thundered at him through manybrazen mouths, but Clayton held on his high way unperturbed. He wasspeaking by day and night to thousands. Such meetings he had never hadbefore. Kittrell had visions of him before those immense audiences inhalls, in tents, in the raw open air of that rude March weather, makinghis appeals to the heart of the great mass. A fine, splendid, romanticfigure he was, striking to the imagination, this champion of thepeople's cause, and Kittrell longed for the lost chance. Oh, for one dayon the _Post_ now!

One morning at breakfast, as Edith read the _Telegraph_, Kittrell sawthe tears well slowly in her brown eyes. 

"Oh, " she said, "it is shameful!" She clenched her little fists. "Oh, ifI were only a man I'd--" She could not in her impotent feminine rage saywhat she would do; she could only grind her teeth. Kittrell bent hishead over his plate; his coffee choked him. 

"Dearest, " she said presently, in another tone, "tell me, how is he? Doyou--ever see him? Will he win?"

"No, I never see him. But he'll win; I wouldn't worry. "

"He used to come here, " she went on, "to rest a moment, to escape fromall this hateful confusion and strife. He is killing himself! And theyaren't worth it--those ignorant people--they aren't worth suchsacrifices. "

He got up from the table and turned away, and then realizing quickly, she flew to his side and put her arms about his neck and said:

"Forgive me, dearest, I didn't mean--only--"

"Oh, Edith, " he said, "this is killing me. I feel like a dog. "

"Don't dear; he is big enough, and good enough; he will understand. "

"Yes; that only makes it harder, only makes it hurt the more. "

That afternoon, in the car, he heard no talk but of the election; anddown-town, in a cigar store where he stopped for cigarettes, he heardsome men talking mysteriously, in the hollow voice of rumor, of somesensation, some scandal. It alarmed him, and as he went into the officehe met Manning, the _Telegraph_'s political man. 

"Tell me, Manning, " Kittrell said, "how does it look?"

"Damn bad for us. "

"For us?"

"Well, for our mob of burglars and second story workers here--the gangwe represent. " He took a cigarette from the box Kittrell was opening. 

"And will he win?"

"Will he win?" said Manning, exhaling the words on the thin level streamof smoke that came from his lungs. "Will he win? In a walk, I tell you. He's got 'em beat to a standstill right now. That's the dope. "

"But what about this story of--"

"Aw, that's all a pipe-dream of Burns'. I'm running it in the morning, but it's nothing; it's a shine. They're big fools to print it at all. But it's their last card; they're desperate. They won't stop atanything, or at any crime, except those requiring courage. Burns is inthere with Benson now; so is Salton, and old man Glenn, and the rest ofthe bunco family. They're framing it up. When I saw old Glenn go in, with his white side-whiskers, I knew the widow and the orphan were indanger again, and that he was going bravely to the front for 'em. Say, that young Banks is comin', isn't he? That's a peach, that cartoon ofhis to-night. "

Kittrell went on down the hall to the art-room to wait until Bensonshould be free. But it was not long until he was sent for, and as heentered the managing editor's room he was instantly sensible of thesomber atmosphere of a grave and solemn council of war. Bensonintroduced him to Glenn, the banker, to Salton, the party boss, and toBurns, the president of the street-car company; and as Kittrell sat downhe looked about him, and could scarcely repress a smile as he recalledManning's estimate of Glenn. The old man sat there, as solemn andunctuous as ever he had in his pew at church. Benson, red of face, wasmore plainly perturbed, but Salton was as reserved, as immobile, asinscrutable as ever, his narrow, pointed face, with its vulpineexpression, being perhaps paler than usual. Benson had on his deskbefore him the cartoon Kittrell had finished that day. 

"Mr. Kittrell, " Benson began, "we've been talking over the politicalsituation, and I was showing these gentlemen this cartoon. It isn't, Ifear, in your best style; it lacks the force, the argument, we'd likejust at this time. That isn't the _Telegraph_ Clayton, Mr. Kittrell. " Hepointed with the amber stem of his pipe. "Not at all. Clayton is astrong, smart, unscrupulous, dangerous man! We've reached a crisis inthis campaign; if we can't turn things in the next three days, we'relost, that's all; we might as well face it. To-morrow we make animportant revelation concerning the character of Clayton, and we want tofollow it up the morning after by a cartoon that will be a stunner, aclencher. We have discussed it here among ourselves, and this is ouridea. "

Benson drew a crude, bald outline, indicating the cartoon they wishedKittrell to draw. The idea was so coarse, so brutal, so revolting, thatKittrell stood aghast, and, as he stood, he was aware of Salton's littleeyes fixed on him. Benson waited; they all waited. 

"Well, " said Benson, "what do you think of it?"

Kittrell paused an instant, and then said:

"I won't draw it; that's what I think of it. "

Benson flushed angrily and looked up at him. 

"We are paying you a very large salary, Mr. Kittrell, and your work, ifyou will pardon me, has not been up to what we were led to expect. "

"You are quite right, Mr. Benson, but I can't draw that cartoon. "

"Well, great God!" yelled Burns, "what have we got here--a gold brick?"He rose with a vivid sneer on his red face, plunged his hands in hispockets, and took two or three nervous strides across the room. Kittrelllooked at him, and slowly his eyes blazed out of a face that had gonewhite on the instant. 

"What did you say, sir?" he demanded. 

Burns thrust his red face, with its prognathic jaw, menacingly towardKittrell. 

"I said that in you we'd got a gold brick. "

"You?" said Kittrell. "What have you to do with it? I don't work foryou. "

"You don't? Well, I guess it's us that puts up--"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" said Glenn, waving a white, pacificatory hand. 

"Yes, let me deal with this, if you please, " said Benson, looking hardat Burns. The street-car man sneered again, then, in ostentatiouscontempt, looked out the window. And in the stillness Benson continued:

"Mr. Kittrell, think a minute. Is your decision final?"

"It is final, Mr. Benson, " said Kittrell. "And as for you, Burns, " heglared angrily at the man, "I wouldn't draw that cartoon for all thedirty money that all the bribing street-car companies in the world couldput into Mr. Glenn's bank here. Good evening, gentlemen. "

It was not until he stood again in his own home that Kittrell felt thephysical effects which the spiritual squalor of such a scene was certainto produce in a nature like his. 

"Neil! What is the matter?" Edith fluttered toward him in alarm. 

He sank into a chair, and for a moment he looked as if he would faint, but he looked wanly up at her and said:

"Nothing; I'm all right; just a little weak. I've gone through asickening, horrible scene--"

"Dearest!"

"And I'm off the _Telegraph_--and a man once more!"

He bent over, with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, andwhen Edith put her calm, caressing hand on his brow, she found that itwas moist from nervousness. Presently he was able to tell her the wholestory. 

"It was, after all, Edith, a fitting conclusion to my experience on the_Telegraph_. I suppose, though, that to people who are used to tenthousand a year such scenes are nothing at all. " She saw in this traceof his old humor that he was himself again, and she hugged his head toher bosom. 

"Oh, dearest, " she said, "I'm proud of you--and happy again. "

They were, indeed, both happy, happier than they had been in weeks. 

The next morning after breakfast, she saw by his manner, by thehumorous, almost comical expression about his eyes, that he had an idea. In this mood of satisfaction--this mood that comes too seldom in theartist's life--she knew it was wise to let him alone. And he lighted hispipe and went to work. She heard him now and then, singing or whistlingor humming; she scented his pipe, then cigarettes; then, at last, aftertwo hours, he called in a loud, triumphant tone:

"Oh, Edith!"

She was at the door in an instant, and, waving his hand grandly at hisdrawing-board, he turned to her with that expression which connotes thegreatest joy gods or mortals can know--the joy of beholding one's ownwork and finding it good. He had, as she saw, returned to the cartoon ofClayton he had laid aside when the tempter came; and now it wasfinished. Its simple lines revealed Clayton's character, as thesufficient answer to all the charges the _Telegraph_ might make againsthim. Edith leaned against the door and looked long and critically. 

"It was fine before, " she said presently; "it's better now. Before itwas a portrait of the man; this shows his soul. "

"Well, it's how he looks to me, " said Neil, "after a month in which toappreciate him. "

"But what, " she said, stooping and peering at the edge of the drawing, where, despite much knife-scraping, vague figures appeared, "what'sthat?"

"Oh, I'm ashamed to tell you, " he said. "I'll have to paste over thatbefore it's electrotyped. You see, I had a notion of putting in thegang, and I drew four little figures--Benson, Burns, Salton and Glenn;they were plotting--oh, it was foolish and unworthy. I decided I didn'twant anything of hatred in it--just as he wouldn't want anything ofhatred in it; so I rubbed them out. "

"Well, I'm glad. It is beautiful; it makes up for everything; it's anappreciation--worthy of the man. "

When Kittrell entered the office of the _Post_, the boys greeted himwith delight, and his presence made a sensation, for there had beenrumors of the break which the absence of a "Kit" cartoon in the_Telegraph_ that morning had confirmed. But, if Hardy was surprised, hissurprise was swallowed up in his joy, and Kittrell was grateful to himfor the delicacy with which he touched the subject that consumed thenewspaper and political world with curiosity. 

"I'm glad, Kit, " was all that he said. "You know that. "

Then he forgot everything in the cartoon, and he showed his instantrecognition of its significance by snatching out his watch, pushing abutton, and saying to Garland, who came to the door in his shirtsleeves:

"Tell Nic to hold the first edition for a five-column first-pagecartoon. And send this up right away. "

They had a last look at it before it went, and after gazing a moment insilence Hardy said:

"It's the greatest thing you ever did, Kit, and it comes at thepsychological moment. It'll elect him. "

"Oh, he was elected anyhow. "

Hardy shook his head, and in the movement Kittrell saw how the strain ofthe campaign had told on him. "No, he wasn't; the way they've beenhammering him is something fierce; and the _Telegraph_--well, yourcartoons and all, you know. "

"But my cartoons in the _Telegraph_ were rotten. Any work that's notsincere, not intellectually honest----"

Hardy interrupted him:

"Yes; but, Kit, you're so good that your rotten is better than 'mostanybody's best. " He smiled, and Kittrell blushed and looked away. 

Hardy was right. The "Kit" cartoon, back in the _Post_, created itssensation, and after it appeared the political reporters said it hadstarted a landslide to Clayton; that the betting was 4 to 1 and notakers, and that it was all over but the shouting. 

That night, as they were at dinner, the telephone rang, and in a minuteNeil knew by Edith's excited and delighted reiteration of "yes, " "yes, "who had called up. And he then heard her say:

"Indeed I will; I'll come every night and sit in the front seat. "

When Kittrell displaced Edith at the telephone, he heard the voice ofJohn Clayton, lower in register and somewhat husky after four weeks'speaking, but more musical than ever in Kittrell's ears when it said:

"I just told the little woman, Neil, that I didn't know how to say it, so I wanted her to thank you for me. It was beautiful in you, and I wishI were worthy of it; it was simply your own good soul expressingitself. "

And it was the last delight to Kittrell to hear that voice and to knowthat all was well. 

But one question remained unsettled. Kittrell had been on the_Telegraph_ a month, and his contract differed from that ordinarily madeby the members of a newspaper staff in that he was paid by the year, though in monthly instalments. Kittrell knew that he had broken hiscontract on grounds which the sordid law would not see or recognize andthe average court think absurd, and that the _Telegraph_ might legallyrefuse to pay him at all. He hoped the _Telegraph_ would do this! But itdid not; on the contrary, he received the next day a check for hismonth's work. He held it up for Edith's inspection. 

"Of course, I'll have to send it back, " he said. 

"Certainly. "

"Do you think me quixotic?"

"Well, we're poor enough as it is--let's have some luxuries; let's bequixotic until after election, at least. "

"Sure, " said Neil; "just what I was thinking. I'm going to do a cartoonevery day for the _Post_ until election day, and I'm not going to take acent. I don't want to crowd Banks out, you know, and I want to do mypart for Clayton and the cause, and do it, just once, for the pure loveof the thing. "

Those last days of the campaign were, indeed, luxuries to Kittrell andto Edith, days of work and fun and excitement. All day Kittrell workedon his cartoons, and in the evening they went to Clayton's meetings. Theexperience was a revelation to them both--the crowds, the waiting forthe singing of the automobile's siren, the wild cheers that greetedClayton, and then his speech, his appeals to the best there was in men. He had never made such speeches, and long afterward Edith could hearthose cheers and see the faces of those working-men aglow with the hope, the passion, the fervent religion of democracy. And those days came totheir glad climax that night when they met at the office of the _Post_to receive the returns, in an atmosphere quivering with excitement, withmessenger boys and reporters coming and going, and in the street outsidean immense crowd, swaying and rocking between the walls on either side, with screams and shouts and mad huzzas, and the wild blowing ofhorns--all the hideous, happy noise an American election-night crowd canmake. 

Late in the evening Clayton had made his way, somehow unnoticed, throughthe crowd, and entered the office. He was happy in the great triumph hewould not accept as personal, claiming it always for the cause; but ashe dropped into the chair Hardy pushed toward him, they all saw howweary he was. 

Just at that moment the roar in the street below swelled to a mightycrescendo, and Hardy cried:

"Look!"

They ran to the window. The boys up-stairs who were manipulating thestereopticon, had thrown on the screen an enormous picture of Clayton, the portrait Kittrell had drawn for his cartoon. 

"Will you say now there isn't the personal note in it?" Edith asked. 

Clayton glanced out the window, across the dark, surging street, at thepicture. 

"Oh, it's not me they're cheering for, " he said; "it's for Kit, here. "

"Well, perhaps some of it's for him, " Edith admitted loyally. 

They were silent, seized irresistibly by the emotion that mastered themighty crowd in the dark streets below. Edith was strangely moved. Presently she could speak:

"Is there anything sweeter in life than to know that you have done agood thing--and done it well?"

"Yes, " said Clayton, "just one: to have a few friends who understand. "

"You are right, " said Edith. "It is so with art, and it must be so withlife; it makes an art of life. "

It was dark enough there by the window for her to slip her hand intothat of Neil, who had been musing silently on the crowd. 

"I can never say again, " she said softly, "that those people are notworth sacrifice. They are worth all; they are everything; they are thehope of the world; and their longings and their needs, and thepossibility of bringing them to pass, are all that give significance tolife. "

"That's what America is for, " said Clayton, "and it's worth while to beallowed to help even in a little way to make, as old Walt says, 'anation of friends, of equals. '"

BRAND WHITLOCK

Brand Whitlock, lawyer, politician, author and ambassador, was born inUrbana, Ohio, March 4, 1869. His father, Rev. Elias D. Whitlock, was aminister of power and a man of strong convictions. Brand was educatedpartly in the public schools, partly by private teaching. He never wentto college, but this did not mean that his education stopped; he kept onstudying, and to such good purpose that in 1916 Brown University gavehim the degree of Doctor of Laws. Like many other writers, he receivedhis early training in newspaper work. At eighteen he became a reporteron a Toledo paper, and three years later was reporter and politicalcorrespondent for the Chicago _Herald_. While in Chicago he was a memberof the old Whitechapel Club, a group of newspaper men which included F. P. Dunne, the creator of _Mr. Dooley_; Alfred Henry Lewis, author of_Wolfville_; and George Ade, whose _Fables in Slang_ were widely populara few years ago. 

He was strongly drawn to the law, and in 1893 went to Springfield, Illinois, and entered a law office as a student. He was admitted to thebar, and shortly after went to Toledo, Ohio, to practice. In eight yearshe had established himself as a successful lawyer, and something more. He was recognized as a man of high executive ability, and as beingabsolutely "square. " Such men are none too common, and Toledo decidedthat it needed him in the mayor's chair. Without a political machine, without a platform, and without a party, he was elected mayor in 1905, reelected in 1907, again in 1909, again in 1911--and could probably havehad the office for life if he had been willing to accept it. In themeantime he had written several successful novels; he wanted more timefor writing, and when in 1913 he was offered the post of United StatesMinister to Belgium, he accepted, thinking that he would find in thisposition an opportunity to observe life from a new angle, and leisurefor literary work. In August 1914 he was on his vacation, and had begunwork on a new novel. In his own words:

 I had the manuscript of my novel before me.... It was somehow just beginning to take form, beginning to show some signs of life; at times some characters in it gave evidence of being human and alive; they were beginning to act now and then spontaneously, beginning to say and to do things after the manner of human beings; the long vista before me, the months of laborious drudging toil and pain, the long agony of effort necessary to write any book, even a poor one, was beginning to appear less weary, less futile; there was the first faint glow of the joy of creative effort. 

and then suddenly the telephone bell rang, and announced that theArchduke of Austria had been assassinated at Sarajevo. 

The rest of the story belongs to history. How he went back to Brussels;how when the city seemed doomed, and all the government officials left, he stayed on; how when the city was preparing to resist by force, hewent to Burgomaster Max and convinced him that it was useless, and sosaved the city from the fate of Louvain; how he took charge of therelief work, how the King of Belgium thanked him for his services to thecountry; how the city of Brussels in gratitude gave him a picture by VanDyck, a priceless thing, which he accepted--not for himself but for hishome city of Toledo; how after the war, he went back, not as Ministerbut as Ambassador, --all these are among the proud memories of America'spart in the World War. 

Brand Whitlock is so much more than an author that it is with an effortthat we turn to consider his literary work. His first book, _TheThirteenth District_, published in 1902, was a novel of Americanpolitics; it contains a capital description of a convention, and showsthe strategy of political leaders as seen by a keen observer. In _HerInfinite Variety_ he dealt with the suffrage movement as it was in1904, with determined women seeking the ballot, and equally determinedwomen working just as hard to keep it away from them. _The HappyAverage_ was a story of an every-day American couple: they were notrich, nor famous, nor divorced, --yet the author thinks their story istypical of most American lives. _The Turn of the Balance_ is a novelthat grew out of his legal experiences: it deals with the underworld ofcrime, and often in a depressing way. It reflects the author's beliefthat the present organization of society, and our methods ofadministering justice, are the cause of much of the misery in the world. Following these novels came two volumes of short stories, _The GoldBrick_ and _The Fall Guy_: both deal with various aspects of Americanlife of to-day. In 1914 he published an autobiography under the title_Forty Years of It_. This is interesting as a picture of political lifeof the period in Ohio. His latest book, _Memories of Belgium under theGerman Occupation_, tells the story of four eventful years. In all thattrying time, each night, no matter how weary he was, he forced himselfto set down the events of the day. From these records he wrote a bookthat by virtue of its first-hand information and its literary art ranksamong the most important of the books called forth by the Great War. 

THE TRAVELING SALESMAN

_The traveling salesman is a characteristic American type. We laugh athis stories, or we criticise him for his "nerve, " but we do not alwaysmake allowance for the fact that his life is not an easy one, and thathis occupation develops "nerve" just as an athlete's work developsmuscle. The best presentation of the traveling salesman in fiction isfound in the stories of Edna Ferber. And the fact that her "salesman" isa woman only adds to the interest of the stories. When ex-PresidentRoosevelt read Miss Ferber's book, he wrote her an enthusiastic lettertelling her how much he admired Emma McChesney. We meet her in the firstwords of this story_. 

HIS MOTHER'S SON

BY

EDNA FERBER

"Full?" repeated Emma McChesney (and if it weren't for the compositorthere'd be an exclamation point after that question mark). 

"Sorry, Mrs. McChesney, " said the clerk, and he actually looked it, "butthere's absolutely nothing stirring. We're full up. The BenevolentBrotherhood of Bisons is holding its regular annual state conventionhere. We're putting up cots in the hall. "

Emma McChesney's keen blue eyes glanced up from their inspection of thelittle bunch of mail which had just been handed her. "Well, pick out ahall with a southern exposure and set up a cot or so for me, " she said, agreeably, "because I've come to stay. After selling FeatherloomPetticoats on the road for ten years I don't see myself trailing up anddown this town looking for a place to lay my head. I've learned this onelarge, immovable truth, and that is, that a hotel clerk is a hotelclerk. It makes no difference whether he is stuck back of a marblepillar and hidden by a gold vase full of thirty-six-inch American Beautyroses at the Knickerbocker, or setting the late fall fashions for men inGalesburg, Illinois. "

By one small degree was the perfect poise of the peerless personagebehind the register jarred. But by only one. He was a hotel night clerk. 

"It won't do you any good to get sore, Mrs. McChesney, " he began, suavely. "Now a man would----"

"But I'm not a man, " interrupted Emma McChesney. "I'm only doing aman's work and earning a man's salary and demanding to be treated withas much consideration as you'd show a man. "

The personage busied himself mightily with a pen, and a blotter, andsundry papers, as is the manner of personages when annoyed. "I'd like toaccommodate you; I'd like to do it. "

"Cheer up, " said Emma McChesney, "you're going to. I don't mind a littlediscomfort. Though I want to mention in passing that if there are anylady Bisons present you needn't bank on doubling me up with them. I'vehad one experience of that kind. It was in Albia, Iowa. I'd sleep in thekitchen range before I'd go through another. "

Up went the erstwhile falling poise. "You're badly mistaken, madam. I'ma member of this order myself, and a finer lot of fellows it has neverbeen my pleasure to know. "

"Yes, I know, " drawled Emma McChesney. "Do you know, the thing that getsme is the inconsistency of it. Along come a lot of boobs who never use ahotel the year around except to loaf in the lobby, and wear out theleather chairs, and use up the matches and toothpicks and get thebaseball returns, and immediately you turn away a traveling man who usesa three-dollar-a-day room, with a sample room downstairs for his stuff, who tips every porter and bell-boy in the place, asks for no favors, andwho, if you give him a halfway decent cup of coffee for breakfast, willfall in love with the place and boom it all over the country. Half ofyour Benevolent Bisons are here on the European plan, with a view topatronizing the free-lunch counters or being asked to take dinner at thehome of some local Bison whose wife has been cooking up on pies, andchicken salad and veal roast for the last week. "

Emma McChesney leaned over the desk a little, and lowered her voice tothe tone of confidence. "Now, I'm not in the habit of making a nuisanceof myself like this. I don't get so chatty as a rule, and I know that Icould jump over to Monmouth and get first-class accommodations there. But just this once I've a good reason for wanting to make you and myselfa little miserable. Y'see, my son is traveling with me this trip. "

"Son!" echoed the clerk, staring. 

"Thanks. That's what they all do. After a while I'll begin to believethat there must be something hauntingly beautiful and girlish about meor every one wouldn't petrify when I announce that I've a six-foot sonattached to my apron-strings. He looks twenty-one, but he's seventeen. He thinks the world's rotten because he can't grow one of those fuzzylittle mustaches that the men are cultivating to match their hats. He'sdown at the depot now, straightening out our baggage. Now I want to saythis before he gets here. He's been out with me just four days. Thosefour days have been a revelation, an eye-opener, and a series of rudejolts. He used to think that his mother's job consisted of traveling inPullmans, eating delicate viands turned out by the hotel chefs, andstrewing Featherloom Petticoats along the path. I gave him plenty ofmoney, and he got into the habit of looking lightly upon anything moretrifling than a five-dollar bill. He's changing his mind by great leaps. I'm prepared to spend the night in the coal cellar if you'll just fixhim up--not too comfortably. It'll be a great lesson for him. There heis now. Just coming in. Fuzzy coat and hat and English stick. Hist! Asthey say on the stage. "

The boy crossed the crowded lobby. There was a little worried, annoyedfrown between his eyes. He laid a protecting hand on his mother's arm. Emma McChesney was conscious of a little thrill of pride as she realizedthat he did not have to look up to meet her gaze. 

"Look here, Mother, they tell me there's some sort of a convention here, and the town's packed. That's what all those banners and things werefor. I hope they've got something decent for us here. I came up with aman who said he didn't think there was a hole left to sleep in. "

"You don't say!" exclaimed Emma McChesney, and turned to the clerk. "This is my son, Jock McChesney--Mr. Sims. Is this true?"

"Glad to know you, sir, " said Mr. Sims. "Why, yes, I'm afraid we arepretty well filled up, but seeing it's you maybe we can do something foryou. "

He ruminated, tapping his teeth with a penholder, and eying the pairbefore him with a maddening blankness of gaze. Finally:

"I'll do my best, but you can't expect much. I guess I can squeezeanother cot into eight-seven for the young man. There's--let's seenow--who's in eighty-seven? Well, there's two Bisons in the double bed, and one in the single, and Fat Ed Meyers in the cot and----"

Emma McChesney stiffened into acute attention. "Meyers?" sheinterrupted. "Do you mean Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-silk SkirtCompany?"

"That's so. You two are in the same line, aren't you? He's a greatlittle piano player, Ed is. Ever hear him play?"

"When did he get in?"

"Oh, he just came in fifteen minutes ago on the Ashland division. He'sin at supper. "

"Oh, " said Emma McChesney. The two letters breathed relief. 

But relief had no place in the voice, or on the countenance of JockMcChesney. He bristled with belligerence. "This cattle-car style ofsleeping don't make a hit. I haven't had a decent night's rest for threenights. I never could sleep on a sleeper. Can't you fix us up betterthan that?"

"Best I can do. "

"But where's mother going? I see you advertise 'three large andcommodious steam-heated sample rooms in connection. ' I suppose mother'sdue to sleep on one of the tables there. "

"Jock, " Emma McChesney reproved him, "Mr. Sims is doing us a greatfavor. There isn't another hotel in town that would----"

"You're right, there isn't, " agreed Mr. Sims. "I guess the young man isnew to this traveling game. As I said, I'd like to accommodate you, but-- Let's see now. Tell you what I'll do. If I can get the housekeeperto go over and sleep in the maids' quarters just for to-night, you canuse her room. There you are! Of course, it's over the kitchen, and theremay be some little noise early in the morning----"

Emma McChesney raised a protesting hand. "Don't mention it. Just lead methither. I'm so tired I could sleep in an excursion special that wasswitching at Pittsburgh. Jock, me child, we're in luck. That's twice inthe same place. The first time was when we were inspired to eat oursupper on the diner instead of waiting until we reached here to take theleftovers from the Bisons' grazing. I hope that housekeeper hasn't apicture of her departed husband dangling life-size on the wall at thefoot of the bed. But they always have. Good-night, son. Don't let theBisons bite you. I'll be up at seven. "

But it was just 6. 30 A. M. When Emma McChesney turned the little bend inthe stairway that led to the office. The scrub-woman was still inpossession. The cigar-counter girl had not yet made her appearance. There was about the place a general air of the night before. All but thenight clerk. He was as spruce and trim, and alert and smooth-shaven asonly a night clerk can be after a night's vigil. 

"'Morning!" Emma McChesney called to him. She wore blue serge, and asmart fall hat. The late autumn morning was not crisper and sunnier thanshe. 

"Good-morning, Mrs. McChesney, " returned Mr. Sims, sonorously. "Have agood night's sleep? I hope the kitchen noises didn't wake you. "

Emma McChesney paused with her hand on the door. "Kitchen? Oh, no. Icould sleep through a vaudeville china-juggling act. But--what anextraordinarily unpleasant-looking man that housekeeper's husband musthave been. "

That November morning boasted all those qualities which November-morningwriters are so prone to bestow upon the month. But the words wine, andsparkle, and sting, and glow, and snap do not seem to cover it. EmmaMcChesney stood on the bottom step, looking up and down Main Street andbreathing in great draughts of that unadjectivable air. Her complexionstood the test of the merciless, astringent morning and came uptriumphantly and healthily firm and pink and smooth. The town was stillasleep. She started to walk briskly down the bare and ugly Main Streetof the little town. In her big, generous heart, and her keen, alertmind, there were many sensations and myriad thoughts, but varied anddiverse as they were they all led back to the boy up there in thestuffy, over-crowded hotel room--the boy who was learning his lesson. 

Half an hour later she reentered the hotel, her cheeks glowing. Jock wasnot yet down. So she ordered and ate her wise and cautious breakfast offruit and cereal and toast and coffee, skimming over her morning paperas she ate. At 7:30 she was back in the lobby, newspaper in hand. TheBisons were already astir. She seated herself in a deep chair in a quietcorner, her eyes glancing up over the top of her paper toward thestairway. At eight o'clock Jock McChesney came down. 

There was nothing of jauntiness about him. His eyelids were red. Hisface had the doughy look of one whose sleep has been brief and feverish. As he came toward his mother you noticed a stain on his coat, and asunburst of wrinkles across one leg of his modish brown trousers. 

"Good-morning, son!" said Emma McChesney. "Was it as bad as that?"

Jock McChesney's long fingers curled into a fist. 

"Say, " he began, his tone venomous, "do you know whatthose--those--those----"

"Say it!" commanded Emma McChesney. "I'm only your mother. If you keepthat in your system your breakfast will curdle in your stomach. "

Jock McChesney said it. I know no phrase better fitted to describe histone than that old favorite of the erotic novelists. It was vibrant withpassion. It breathed bitterness. It sizzled with savagery. It--Oh, alliteration is useless. 

"Well, " said Emma McChesney, encouragingly, "go on. "

"Well!" gulped Jock McChesney, and glared; "those two double-bedded, bloomin', blasted Bisons came in at twelve, and the single one aboutfifteen minutes later. They didn't surprise me. There was a herd ofabout ninety-three of 'em in the hall, all saying good-night to eachother, and planning where they'd meet in the morning, and the time, andplace and probable weather conditions. For that matter, there weredroves of 'em pounding up and down the halls all night. I never saw suchrestless cattle. If you'll tell me what makes more noise in the middleof the night than the metal disk of a hotel key banging and clanging upagainst a door, I'd like to know what it is. My three Bisons were alldolled up with fool ribbons and badges and striped paper canes. Whenthey switched on the light I gave a crack imitation of a tired workingman trying to get a little sleep. I breathed regularly and heavily, withan occasional moaning snore. But if those two hippopotamus Bisons hadbeen alone on their native plains they couldn't have cared less. Theybellowed, and pawed the earth, and threw their shoes around, and yawned, and stretched and discussed their plans for the next day, and reviewedall their doings of that day. Then one of them said something aboutturning in, and I was so happy I forgot to snore. Just then another keyclanged at the door, in walked a fat man in a brown suit and a brownderby, and stuff was off. "

"That, " said Emma McChesney, "would be Ed Meyers, of the StraussSans-silk Skirt Company. "

"None other than our hero. " Jock's tone had an added acidity. "It tookthose four about two minutes to get acquainted. In three minutes theyhad told their real names, and it turned out that Meyers belonged to anorganization that was a second cousin of the Bisons. In five minutesthey had got together a deck and a pile of chips and were shirt-sleevingit around a game of pinochle. I would doze off to the slap of cards, andthe click of chips, and wake up when the bell-boy came in with anotherround, which he did every six minutes. When I got up this morning Ifound that Fat Ed Meyers had been sitting on the chair over which Itrustingly had draped my trousers. This sunburst of wrinkles is where hemostly sat. This spot on my coat is where a Bison drank his beer. "

Emma McChesney folded her paper and rose, smiling. "It is sort oftrying, I suppose, if you're not used to it. "

"Used to it!" shouted the outraged Jock. "Used to it! Do you mean totell me there's nothing unusual about----"

"Not a thing. Oh, of course you don't strike a bunch of Bisons everyday. But it happens a good many times. The world is full of AncientOrders and they're everlastingly getting together and drawing upresolutions and electing officers. Don't you think you'd better go in tobreakfast before the Bisons begin to forage? I've had mine. "

The gloom which had overspread Jock McChesney's face lifted a little. The hungry boy in him was uppermost. "That's so. I'm going to have somewheat cakes, and steak, and eggs, and coffee, and fruit, and toast, androlls. "

"Why slight the fish?" inquired his mother. Then, as he turned towardthe dining-room, "I've two letters to get out. Then I'm going down thestreet to see a customer. I'll be up at the Sulzberg-Stein departmentstore at nine sharp. There's no use trying to see old Sulzberg beforeten, but I'll be there, anyway, and so will Ed Meyers, or I'm no skirtsalesman. I want you to meet me there. It will do you good to watch howthe overripe orders just drop, ker-plunk, into my lap. "

Maybe you know Sulzberg & Stein's big store? No? That's because you'vealways lived in the city. Old Sulzberg sends his buyers to the New Yorkmarket twice a year, and they need two floor managers on the main floornow. The money those people spend for red and green decorations atChristmas time, apple-blossoms and pink crêpe paper shades in thespring, must be something awful. Young Stein goes to Chicago to have hisclothes made, and old Sulzberg likes to keep the traveling men waitingin the little ante-room outside his private office. 

Jock McChesney finished his huge breakfast, strolled over to Sulzberg &Stein's, and inquired his way to the office only to find that his motherwas not yet there. There were three men in the little waiting-room. Oneof them was Fat Ed Meyers. His huge bulk overflowed the spindle-leggedchair on which he sat. His brown derby was in his hands. His eyes wereon the closed door at the other side of the room. So were the eyes ofthe other two travelers. Jock took a vacant seat next to Fat Ed Meyersso that he might, in his mind's eye, pick out a particularly choice spotupon which his hard young fist might land--if only he had the chance. Breaking up a man's sleep like that, the great big overgrown mutt!

"What's your line?" said Ed Meyers, suddenly turning toward Jock. 

Prompted by some imp--"Skirts, " answered Jock. "Ladies' petticoats. "("As if men ever wore 'em!" he giggled inwardly. )

Ed Meyers shifted around in his chair so that he might better stare atthis new foe in the field. His little red mouth was open ludicrously. 

"Who're you out for?" he demanded next. 

There was a look of Emma McChesney on Jock's face. "Why--er--the UnionUnderskirt and Hosiery Company of Chicago. New concern. "

"Must be, " ruminated Ed Meyers. "I never heard of 'em, and I know 'emall. You're starting in young, ain't you, kid! Well, it'll never hurtyou. You'll learn something new every day. Now me, I----"

In breezed Emma McChesney. Her quick glance rested immediately uponMeyers and the boy. And in that moment some instinct prompted JockMcChesney to shake his head, ever so slightly, and assume a blankness ofexpression. And Emma McChesney, with that shrewdness which had made herone of the best salesmen on the road, saw, and miraculously understood. 

"How do, Mrs. McChesney, " grinned Fat Ed Meyers. "You see I beat you toit. "

"So I see, " smiled Emma, cheerfully. "I was delayed. Just sold a nicelittle bill to Watkins down the street. " She seated herself across theway, and kept her eyes on that closed door. 

"Say, kid, " Meyers began, in the husky whisper of the fat man, "I'mgoing to put you wise to something, seeing you're new to this game. Seethat lady over there?" He nodded discreetly in Emma McChesney'sdirection. 

"Pretty, isn't she?" said Jock, appreciatively. 

"Know who she is?"

"Well--I--she does look familiar, but----"

"Oh, come now, quit your bluffing. If you'd ever met that dame you'dremember it. Her name's McChesney--Emma McChesney, and she sells T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats. I'll give her her dues; she's the bestlittle salesman on the road. I'll bet that girl could sell a ruffled, accordion-plaited underskirt to a fat woman who was trying to reduce. She's got the darndest way with her. And at that she's straight, too. "

If Ed Meyers had not been gazing so intently into his hat, trying atthe same time to look cherubically benign he might have seen a quick andpainful scarlet sweep the face of the boy, coupled with a certain tenselook of the muscles around the jaw. 

"Well, now, look here, " he went on, still in a whisper. "We're bothskirt men, you and me. Everything's fair in this game. Maybe you don'tknow it, but when there's a bunch of the boys waiting around to see thehead of the store like this, and there happens to be a lady traveler inthe crowd, why, it's considered kind of a professional courtesy to letthe lady have the first look-in. See? It ain't so often that threepeople in the same line get together like this. She knows it, and she'ssitting on the edge of her chair, waiting to bolt when that door opens, even if she does act like she was hanging on the words of that ladyclerk there. The minute it does open a crack she'll jump up and give mea fleeting, grateful smile, and sail in and cop a fat order away fromthe old man and his skirt buyer. I'm wise. Say, he may be an oyster, buthe knows a pretty woman when he sees one. By the time she's through withhim he'll have enough petticoats on hand to last him from now untilTurkey goes suffrage. Get me?"

"I get you, " answered Jock. 

"I say, this is business, and good manners be hanged. When a womanbreaks into a man's game like this, let her take her chances like a man. Ain't that straight?"

"You've said something, " agreed Jock. 

"Now, look here, kid. When that door opens I get up. See? And shootstraight for the old man's office. See? Like a duck. See? Say, I may befat, kid, but I'm what they call light on my feet, and when I see anorder getting away from me I can be so fleet that I have Diana lookinglike old Weston doing a stretch of muddy country road in acoast-to-coast hike. See? Now you help me out on this and I'll see thatyou don't suffer for it. I'll stick in a good word for you, believe me. You take the word of an old stager like me and you won't go far--"

The door opened. Simultaneously three figures sprang into action. Jockhad the seat nearest the door. With marvelous clumsiness he managed toplace himself in Ed Meyers' path, then reddened, began an apology, stepped on both of Ed's feet, jabbed his elbow into his stomach, anddropped his hat. A second later the door of old Sulzberg's privateoffice closed upon Emma McChesney's smart, erect, confident figure. 

Now, Ed Meyers' hands were peculiar hands for a fat man. They weretapering, slender, delicate, blue-veined, temperamental hands. At thismoment, despite his purpling face, and his staring eyes, they were themost noticeable thing about him. His fingers clawed the empty air, quivering, vibrant, as though poised to clutch at Jock's throat. 

Then words came. They spluttered from his lips. They popped like cornkernels in the heat of his wrath; they tripped over each other; theyexploded. 

"You darned kid, you!" he began, with fascinating fluency. "Youthousand-legged, double-jointed, ox-footed truck horse! Come on out ofhere and I'll lick the shine off your shoes, you blue-eyed babe, you!What did you get up for, huh? What did you think this was going to be--aflag drill?"

With a whoop of pure joy Jock McChesney turned and fled. 

They dined together at one o'clock, Emma McChesney and her son Jock. Suddenly Jock stopped eating. His eyes were on the door. "There's thatfathead now, " he said, excitedly. "The nerve of him! He's coming overhere. "

Ed Meyers was waddling toward them with the quick light step of the fatman. His pink, full-jowled face was glowing. His eyes were bright as aboy's. He stopped at their table and paused for one dramatic moment. 

"So, me beauty, you two were in cahoots, huh? That's the second low-downdeal you've handed me. I haven't forgotten that trick you turned withNussbaum at DeKalb. Never mind, little girl. I'll get back at you yet. "

He nodded a contemptuous head in Jock's direction. "Carrying a packer?"

Emma McChesney wiped her fingers daintily on her napkin, crushed it onthe table, and leaned back in her chair. "Men, " she observed, wonderingly, "are the cussedest creatures. This chap occupied the sameroom with you last night and you don't even know his name. Funny! If twostrange women had found themselves occupying the same room for a nightthey wouldn't have got to the kimono and back hair stage before theywould not only have known each other's names, but they'd have tried oneach other's hats, swapped corset cover patterns, found mutual friendsliving in Dayton, Ohio, taught each other a new Irish crochet stitch, showed their family photographs, told how their married sister's littlegirl nearly died with swollen glands, and divided off the mirror intotwo sections to paste their newly-washed handkerchiefs on. Don't tell_me_ men have a genius for friendship. "

"Well, who is he?" insisted Ed Meyers. "He told me everything but hisname this morning. I wish I had throttled him with a bunch of Bisons'badges last night. "

"His name, " smiled Emma McChesney, "is Jock McChesney. He's my one andonly son, and he's put through his first little business deal thismorning just to show his mother that he can be a help to his folks if hewants to. Now, Ed Meyers, if you're going to have apoplexy, don't you goand have it around this table. My boy is only on his second piece ofpie, and I won't have his appetite spoiled. "

EDNA FERBER

A professor of literature once began a lecture on Lowell by saying: "Itmakes a great deal of difference to an author whether he is born inCambridge or Kalamazoo. " Miss Ferber was born in Kalamazoo, but ithasn't made much difference to her. The date was August 15, 1887. Sheattended high school at Appleton, Wisconsin, and at seventeen secured aposition as reporter on the Appleton _Daily Crescent_. That she wassuccessful in newspaper work is shown by the fact that she soon had asimilar position on the _Milwaukee Journal_, and went from there to thestaff of the _Chicago Tribune_, one of the leading newspapers in theUnited States. 

But journalism, engrossing as it is, did not take all of her time. Shebegan a novel, working on it in spare moments, but when it was finishedshe was so dissatisfied with it that she threw the manuscript into thewaste basket. Here her mother found it, and sent it to a publisher, whoaccepted it at once. The book was _Dawn O'Hara_. It was dedicated "To mydear mother who frequently interrupts, and to my sister Fannie who saysSh-sh-sh outside my door. " With this book Miss Ferber, at twenty-four, found herself the author of one of the successful novels of the year. 

Her next work was in the field of the short story, and here too shequickly gained recognition. The field that she has made particularly herown is the delineation of the American business woman, a type familiarin our daily life, but never adequately presented in fiction until EmmaMcChesney appeared. The fidelity with which these stories describe thelife of a traveling salesman show that Miss Ferber knew her subjectthrough and through before she began to write. Her knowledge of otherthings is shown in an amusing letter which she wrote to the editor ofthe _Bookman_ in 1912. He had criticized her for writing a story aboutbaseball, saying that no woman really knew baseball. This was her reply, in part:

 You, buried up there in your office, or your apartment, with your books, books, books, and your pipe, and your everlasting manuscripts, and makers of manuscripts, don't you know that your woman secretary knows more about baseball than you do? Don't you know that every American girl knows baseball, and that most of us read the sporting page, not as a pose, but because we're interested in things that happen on the field, and track, and links, and gridiron? Bless your heart, that baseball story was the worst story in the book, but it was written after a solid summer of watching our bush league team play ball in the little Wisconsin town that I used to call home. 

 Humanity? Which of us really knows it? But take a fairly intelligent girl of seventeen, put her on a country daily newspaper, and then keep her on one paper or another, country and city, for six years, and--well, she just naturally can't help learning some things about some folks, now can she?... 

 You say that two or three more such books may entitle me to serious consideration. If I can get the editors to take more stories, why I suppose there'll be more books. But please don't perform any more serious consideration stuff over 'em. Because me'n Georgie Cohan, we jest aims to amuse. 

Her first book of short stories was called _Buttered Side Down_ (hertitles are always unusual). This was followed by _Roast Beef, Medium_, in which Mrs. McChesney appears as the successful distributor ofFeatherloom skirts. _Personality Plus_ tells of the adventures of herson Jock as an advertising man. _Cheerful--by Request_ introduces Mrs. McChesney and some other people. By this time her favorite character hadbecome so well known that the stage called for her, so Miss Ferbercollaborated with George V. Hobart in a play called _Our Mrs. McChesney_, which was produced with Ethel Barrymore in the title role. Her latest book, _Fanny Herself_, is a novel, and in its pages Mrs. McChesney appears again. 

Her stories show the effect of her newspaper training. The style iscrisp; the descriptions show close observation. Humor lights up everypage, and underlying all her stories is a belief in people, a faith thatlife is worth while, a courage in the face of obstacles, that we like tothink is characteristically American. In the structure and the style ofher stories, Miss Ferber shows the influence of O. Henry, or as anewspaper wit put it, O. Henry's fame, unless mistaken I'm Goes ednaferberating down through time. 

AFTER THE BIG STORE CLOSES

_We all go to the Big Store to buy its bargains, and sometimes wewonder idly what the clerks are like when they are not behind thecounter. This story deals with the lives of two people who punched thetime-clock. When the store closes, it is like the striking of the clockin the fairy tales: the clerks are transformed into human beings, andbecome so much like ourselves that it is hard to tell the difference. _

BITTER-SWEET

BY

FANNIE HURST

Much of the tragical lore of the infant mortality, the malnutrition, andthe five-in-a-room morality of the city's poor is written in statistics, and the statistical path to the heart is more figurative than literal. 

It is difficult to write stylistically a per-annum report of 1, 327curvatures of the spine, whereas the poor specific little vertebra ofMamie O'Grady, daughter to Lou, your laundress, whose alcoholic husbandonce invaded your very own basement and attempted to strangle her in thecoal-bin, can instantly create an apron bazaar in the churchvestry-rooms. 

That is why it is possible to drink your morning coffee without nauseafor it, over the head-lines of forty thousand casualties at Ypres, butto push back abruptly at a three-line notice of little Tony's, yourcorner bootblack's, fatal dive before a street-car. 

Gertie Slayback was statistically down as a woman wage-earner; a typhoidcase among the thousands of the Borough of Manhattan for 1901; and hertwice-a-day share in the Subway fares collected in the present year ofour Lord. 

She was a very atomic one of the city's four millions. But after all, what are the kings and peasants, poets and draymen, but great, greater, or greatest, less, lesser, or least atoms of us? If not of the least, Gertie Slayback was of the very lesser. When she unlocked the front doorto her rooming-house of evenings, there was no one to expect her, excepton Tuesdays, which evening it so happened her week was up. And when sheleft of mornings with her breakfast crumblessly cleared up and the boxof biscuit and condensed-milk can tucked unsuspectedly behind hercamisole in the top drawer there was no one to regret her. 

There are some of us who call this freedom. Again there are those forwhom one spark of home fire burning would light the world. 

Gertie Slayback was one of these. Half a life-time of opening her doorupon this or that desert-aisle of hall bedroom had not taught her hearthow not to sink or the feel of daily rising in one such room to seemless like a damp bathing-suit, donned at dawn. 

The only picture--or call it atavism if you will--which adorned MissSlayback's dun-colored walls was a passe-partout snowscape, nightclosing in, and pink cottage windows peering out from under eaves. Shecould visualize that interior as if she had only to turn the frame forthe smell of wood fire and the snap of pine logs and for the scene oftwo high-back chairs and the wooden crib between. 

What a fragile, gracile thing is the mind that can leap thus from ninebargain basement hours of hairpins and darning-balls to the downybusiness of lining a crib in Never-Never Land and warming No Man'sslippers before the fire of imagination. 

There was that picture so acidly etched into Miss Slayback's brain thatshe had only to close her eyes in the slit-like sanctity of her room andin the brief moment of courting sleep feel the pink penumbra of hervision begin to glow. 

Of late years, or, more specifically, for two years and eight months, another picture had invaded, even superseded the old. A stamp-photographlikeness of Mr. James P. Batch in the corner of Miss Slayback's mirror, and thereafter No Man's slippers became number eight-and-a-half C, andthe hearth a gilded radiator in a dining-living-room somewhere betweenthe Fourteenth Street Subway and the land of the Bronx. 

How Miss Slayback, by habit not gregarious, met Mr. Batch is of noconsequence, except to those snug ones of us to whom an introduction isthe only means to such an end. 

At a six o'clock that invaded even Union Square with heliotrope dusk, Mr. James Batch mistook, who shall say otherwise, Miss Gertie Slayback, as she stepped down into the wintry shade of a Subway kiosk, for MissWhodoesitmatter. At seven o'clock, over a dish of lamb stew _à la_ WhiteKitchen, he confessed, and if Miss Slayback affected too great surpriseand too little indignation, try to conceive six nine-hour week-in-andweek-out days of hairpins and darning-balls, and then, at a heliotropedusk, James P. Batch, in invitational mood, stepping in between it andthe papered walls of a dun-colored evening. To further enlist yourtolerance, Gertie Slayback's eyes were as blue as the noon of June, andJames P. Batch, in a belted-in coat and five kid finger-pointsprotruding ever so slightly and rightly from a breast pocket, was hewnand honed in the image of youth. His the smile of one for whom life'scup holds a heady wine, a wrinkle or two at the eye only serving toenhance that smile; a one-inch feather stuck upright in his derbyhatband. 

It was a forelock once stamped a Corsican with the look of emperor. Itwas this hat feather, a cock's feather at that and worn without sense ofhumor, to which Miss Slayback was fond of attributing the consequencesof that heliotrope dusk. 

"It was the feather in your cap did it, Jimmie. I can see you yet, stepping up with that innocent grin of yours. You think I didn't knowyou were flirting? Cousin from Long Island City! 'Say, ' I says tomyself, I says, 'I look as much like his cousin from Long Island City, if he's got one, as my cousin from Hoboken (and I haven't got any) wouldlook like my sister if I had one. ' It was that sassy little feather inyour hat!"

They would laugh over this ever-green reminiscence on Sunday parkbenches and at intermission at moving pictures when they remainedthrough it to see the show twice. Be the landlady's front parlor ever sopermanently rented out, the motion-picture theater has brought tothousands of young city starvelings, if not the quietude of the home, then at least the warmth and a juxtaposition and a deep darkness thatcan lave the sub-basement throb of temples and is filled with music witha hum in it. 

For two years and eight months of Saturday nights, each one of them asemaphore dropping out across the gray road of the week, Gertie Slaybackand Jimmie Batch dined for one hour and sixty cents at the WhiteKitchen. Then arm and arm up the million-candle-power flare of Broadway, content, these two who had never seen a lake reflect a moon, or a slimfir pointing to a star, that life could be so manifold. And always, too, on Saturday, the tenth from the last row of the De Luxe Cinematograph, Broadway's Best, Orchestra Chairs, fifty cents; Last Ten Rows, thirty-five. The give of velvet-upholstered chairs, perfumed darkness, and any old love story moving across it to the ecstatic ache of GertieSlayback's high young heart. 

On a Saturday evening that was already pointed with stars at thesix-o'clock closing of Hoffheimer's Fourteenth Street Emporium, MissSlayback, whose blondness under fatigue could become ashy, emerged fromthe Bargain Basement almost the first of its frantic exodus, taking theplace of her weekly appointment in the entrance of the Popular DrugStore adjoining, her gaze, something even frantic in it, sifting thepassing crowd. 

At six o'clock Fourteenth Street pours up from its basements, down fromits lofts, and out from its five-and-ten-cent stores, shows, andarcades, in a great homeward torrent--a sweeping torrent that flows fullflush to the Subway, the Elevated, and the surface car, and then spreadsthinly into the least pretentious of the city's homes--the five flightsup, the two rooms rear, and the third floor back. 

Standing there, this eager tide of the Fourteenth Street Emporium, thusreleased by the six-o'clock flood-gates, flowed past Miss Slayback. White-nosed, low-chested girls in short-vamp shoes and no-carat goldvanity-cases. Older men resigned that ambition could be flayed by ayard-stick; young men still impatient of their clerkship. 

It was into the trickle of these last that Miss Slayback bored herglance, the darting, eager glance of hot eyeballs and inner trembling. She was not so pathetically young as she was pathetically blond, atreacherous, ready-to-fade kind of blondness that one day, now that shehad found that very morning her first gray hair, would leave her ashy. 

Suddenly, with a small catch of breath that was audible in her throat, Miss Slayback stepped out of that doorway, squirming her way across thetight congestion of the sidewalk to its curb, then in and out, brushingthis elbow and that shoulder, worming her way in an absolutely supremeanxiety to keep in view a brown derby hat bobbing right briskly alongwith the crowd, a greenish-black bit of feather upright in its band. 

At Broadway, Fourteenth Street cuts quite a caper, deploying out intoUnion Square, an island of park, beginning to be succulent at the firstfalse feint of spring, rising as it were from a sea of asphalt. Acrossthis park Miss Slayback worked her rather frenzied way, breaking into arun when the derby threatened to sink into the confusion of a hundredothers, and finally learning to keep its course by the faint butdistinguishing fact of a slight dent in the crown. At Broadway, someblocks before that highway bursts into its famous flare, Mr. Batch, thanwhom it was no other, turned off suddenly at right angles down into adim pocket of side-street and into the illuminated entrance of Ceiner'sCafé Hungarian. Meals at all hours. Lunch, thirty cents. Dinner, fiftycents. Our Goulash is Famous. 

New York, which expresses itself in more languages to the square blockthan any other area in the world, Babylon included, loves thus to dinelinguistically, so to speak. To the Crescent Turkish Restaurant for itsBusiness Men's Lunch comes Fourth Avenue, whose antique-shop patoisreads across the page from right to left. Sight-seeing automobiles onmission and commission bent allow Altoona, Iowa City, and Quincy, Illinois, fifteen minutes' stop-in at Ching Ling-Foo's ChinatownDelmonico's. Spaghetti and red wine have set New York racing to reserveits table d'hôtes. All except the Latin race. 

Jimmie Batch, who had first seen light, and that gaslight, in a block inlower Manhattan which has since been given over to a milk-station for ahighly congested district, had the palate, if not the purse, of thecosmopolite. His digestive range included _borsch_ and _chow main_;_risotta_ and "ham and. "

To-night, as he turned into Café Hungarian, Miss Slayback slowed anddrew back into the overshadowing protection of an adjoiningoffice-building. She was breathing hard, and her little face, somehowsmaller from chill, was nevertheless a high pink at the cheek-bones. 

The wind swept around the corner, jerking her hat, and her hand flew upto it. There was a fair stream of passers-by even here, and occasionallyone turned for a backward glance at her standing there so franklyindeterminate. 

Suddenly Miss Slayback adjusted her tam-o'-shanter to its flop over herright ear, and, drawing off a pair of dark-blue silk gloves from overimmaculately new white ones, entered Ceiner's Café Hungarian. In itslight she was not so obviously blonder than young, the pink spots in hercheeks had a deepening value to the blue of her eyes, and a black velvettam-o'-shanter revealing just the right fringe of yellow curls is nomean aid. 

First of all, Ceiner's is an eating-place. There is no music except atfive cents in the slot, and its tables for four are perpetually set eachwith a dish of sliced radishes, a bouquet of celery, and a mound ofbread, half the stack rye. Its menus are well thumbed and badlymimeographed. Who enters Ceiner's is prepared to dine from barley soupto apple strudel. At something after six begins the rising sound ofcutlery, and already the new-comer fears to find no table. 

Off at the side, Mr. Jimmie Batch had already disposed of his hat andgray overcoat, and tilting the chair opposite him to indicate itsreservation, shook open his evening paper, the waiter withholding themenu at this sign of rendezvous. 

Straight toward that table Miss Slayback worked quick, swift way, through this and that aisle, jerking back and seating herself on thechair opposite almost before Mr. Batch could raise his eyes from off thesporting page. 

There was an instant of silence between them--the kind of silence thatcan shape itself into a commentary upon the inefficacy of mere speech--awidening silence which, as they sat there facing, deepened until, whenshe finally spoke, it was as if her words were pebbles dropping downinto a well. 

"Don't look so surprised, Jimmie, " she said, propping her face calmly, even boldly, into the white-kid palms. "You might fall off the Christmastree. "

Above the snug, four-inch collar and bow tie Mr. Batch's face was takingon a dull ox-blood tinge that spread back, even reddening his ears. Mr. Batch had the frontal bone of a clerk, the horn-rimmed glasses of theliterarily astigmatic, and the sartorial perfection that only the richcan afford not to attain. 

He was staring now quite frankly, and his mouth had fallen open. "Gert!"he said. 

"Yes, " said Miss Slayback, her insouciance gaining with hisdiscomposure, her eyes widening and then a dolly kind of glassinessseeming to set in. "You wasn't expecting me, Jimmie?"

He jerked up his hand, not meeting her glance. "What's the idea of thecomedy?"

"You don't look glad to see me, Jimmie. "

"If you--think you're funny. "

She was working out of and then back into the freshly white gloves in abetraying kind of nervousness that belied the toss of her voice. "Well, of all things! Mad-cat! Mad, just because you didn't seem to beexpecting me. "

"I--There's some things that are just the limit, that's what they are. Some things that are just the limit, that no fellow would stand from anygirl, and this--this is one of them. "

Her lips were trembling now. "You--you bet your life there's some thingsthat are just the limit. "

He slid out his watch, pushing back. "Well, I guess this place is toosmall for a fellow and a girl that can follow him around the town likea--like----"

She sat forward, grasping the table-sides, her chair tilting with her. "Don't you dare to get up and leave me sitting here! Jimmie Batch, don'tyou dare!"

The waiter intervened, card extended. 

"We--we're waiting for another party, " said Miss Slayback, her handsstill rigidly over the table-sides and her glance like a steady drillinto Mr. Batch's own. 

There was a second of this silence while the waiter withdrew, and thenMr. Batch whipped out his watch again, a gun-metal one with an openface. 

"Now look here. I got a date here in ten minutes, and one or the otherof us has got to clear. You--you're one too many, if you got to knowit. "

"Oh, I do know it, Jimmie! I been one too many for the last fourSaturday nights. I been one too many ever since May Scully came intofive hundred dollars' inheritance and quit the Ladies' Neckwear. I beenone too many ever since May Scully became a lady. "

"If I was a girl and didn't have more shame!"

"Shame! Now you're shouting, Jimmie Batch. I haven't got shame, and Idon't care who knows it. A girl don't stop to have shame when she'sfighting for her rights. "

He was leaning on his elbow, profile to her. "That movie talk can'tscare me. You can't tell me what to do and what not to do. I've givenyou a square deal all right. There's not a word ever passed between usthat ties me to your apron-strings. I don't say I'm not without myobligations to you, but that's not one of them. No, siree--noapron-strings. "

"I know it isn't, Jimmie. You're the kind of a fellow wouldn't even talkto himself for fear of committing himself. "

"I got a date here now any minute, Gert, and the sooner you----"

"You're the guy who passed up the Sixty-first for the Safety Firstregiment. "

"I'll show you my regiment some day. "

"I--I know you're not tied to my apron-strings, Jimmie. I--I wouldn'thave you there for anything. Don't you think I know you too well forthat? That's just it. Nobody on God's earth knows you the way I do. Iknow you better than you know yourself. "

"You better beat it, Gertie. I tell you I'm getting sore. "

Her face flashed from him to the door and back again, her anxiety almostedged with hysteria. "Come on, Jimmie--out the side entrance before shegets here. May Scully ain't the company for you. You think if she was, honey, I'd--I'd see myself come butting in between you this way, like--like a--common girl? She's not the girl to keep you straight. Honest to God she's not, honey. "

"My business is my business, let me tell you that. "

"She's speedy, Jimmie. She was the speediest girl on the main floor, andnow that she's come into those five hundred, instead of planting it fora rainy day, she's quit work and gone plumb crazy with it. "

"When I want advice about my friends I ask for it. "

"It's not the good name that worries me, Jimmie, because she ain't gotany. It's you. She's got you crazy with that five hundred, too--that'swhat's got me scared. "

"Gee! you ought to let the Salvation Army tie a bonnet under yourchin. "

"She's always had her eyes on you, Jimmie. Ain't you men got no sensefor seein' things? Since the day they moved the Gents' Furnishingsacross from the Ladies' Neckwear she's had you spotted. Her goings-onused to leak down to the basement, alrighty. She's not a good girl, Mayain't, Jimmie. She ain't, and you know it. Is she? Is she?"

"Aw!" said Jimmie Batch. 

"You see! See! Ain't got the nerve to answer, have you?"

"Aw--maybe I know, too that she's not the kind of a girl that would turnup where she's not----"

"If you wasn't a classy-looking kind of boy, Jimmie, that a fly girllike May likes to be seen out with, she couldn't find you withmagnifying glasses, not if you was born with the golden rule in yourmouth and had swallowed it. She's not the kind of girl, Jimmie, a fellowlike you needs behind him. If--if you was ever to marry her and get yourhands on them five hundred dollars----"

"It would be my business. "

"It'll be your ruination. You're not strong enough to stand up undernothing like that. With a few hundred unearned dollars in your pocketyou--you'd go up in spontaneous combustion, you would. "

"It would be my own spontaneous combustion. "

"You got to be drove, Jimmie, like a kid. With them few dollars youwouldn't start up a little cigar-store like you think you would. You andher would blow yourselves to the dogs in two months. Cigar-stores ain'tthe place for you, Jimmie. You seen how only clerking in them was nearlyyour ruination--the little gambling-room-in-the-back kind that you pickout. They ain't cigar-stores; they're only false faces for gambling. "

"You know it all, don't you?"

"Oh, I'm dealing it to you straight! There's too many sporty crowdsloafing around those joints for a fellow like you to stand up under. Ifound you in one, and as yellow-fingered and as loafing as they come, anew job a week, a----"

"Yeh, and there was some pep to variety, too. "

"Don't throw over, Jimmie, what my getting you out of it to a decent jobin a department store has begun to do for you. And you're making good, too. Higgins teld me to-day, if you don't let your head swell, therewon't be a fellow in the department can stack up his sales-book anyhigher. "

"Aw!"

"Don't throw it all over, Jimmie--and me--for a crop of dyed red hairand a few dollars to ruin yourself with. "

He shot her a look of constantly growing nervousness, his mouth pulledto an oblique, his glance constantly toward the door. 

"Don't keep no date with her to-night, Jimmie. You haven't got theconstitution to stand her pace. It's telling on you. Look at thosefingers yellowing again--looka----"

"They're my fingers, ain't they?"

"You see, Jimmie, I--I'm the only person in the world that likes youjust for what--you ain't--and hasn't got any pipe dreams about you. That's what counts, Jimmie, the folks that like you in spite, and notbecause of. "

"We will now sing psalm number two hundred and twenty-three. "

"I know there's not a better fellow in the world if he's kept nailed tothe right job, and I know, too, there's not another fellow can go to thedogs any easier. "

"To hear you talk, you'd think I was about six. "

"I'm the only girl that'll ever be willing to make a whip out of herselfthat'll keep you going and won't sting, honey. I know you're soft andlazy and selfish and----"

"Don't forget any. "

"And I know you're my good-looking good-for-nothing, and I know, too, that you--you don't care as much--as much for me from head to toe as Ido for your little finger. But I--like you just the same, Jimmie. That--that's what I mean about having no shame. I--do like you so--soterribly, Jimmie. "

"Aw now--Gert!"

"I know it, Jimmie--that I ought to be ashamed. Don't think I haven'tcried myself to sleep with it whole nights in succession. "

"Aw now--Gert!"

"Don't think I don't know it, that I'm laying myself before you prettycommon. I know it's common for a girl to--to come to a fellow like this, but--but I haven't got any shame about it--I haven't got anything, Jimmie, except fight for--for what's eating me. And the way things arebetween us now is eating me. "

"I---- Why, I got a mighty high regard for you, Gert. "

"There's a time in a girl's life, Jimmie, when she's been starved like Ihave for something of her own all her days; there's times, no matter howshe's held in, that all of a sudden comes a minute when she busts out. "

"I understand, Gert, but----"

"For two years and eight months, Jimmie, life has got to be worth whileliving to me because I could see the day, even if we--you--never talkedabout it, when you would be made over from a flip kid to--to the kind ofa fellow would want to settle down to making a little two-by-four homefor us. A little two-by-four all our own, with you steady on the job andadvanced maybe to forty or fifty a week and----"

"For God's sake, Gertie, this ain't the time or the place to----"

"Oh yes, it is! It's got to be, because it's the first time in fourweeks that you didn't see me coming first. "

"But not now, Gert. I----"

"I'm not ashamed to tell you, Jimmie Batch, that I've been the makingof you since that night you threw the wink at me. And--and it hurts, this does. God! how it hurts!"

He was pleating the table-cloth, swallowing as if his throat hadconstricted, and still rearing his head this way and that in the tightcollar. 

"I--never claimed not to be a bad egg. This ain't the time and the placefor rehashing, that's all. Sure you been a friend to me. I don't say youhaven't. Only I can't be bossed by a girl like you. I don't say MayScully's any better than she ought to be. Only that's my business. Youhear? my business. I got to have life and see a darn sight more futurefor myself than selling shirts in a Fourteenth Street department store. "

"May Scully can't give it to you--her and her fast crowd. "

"Maybe she can and maybe she can't. "

"Them few dollars won't make you; they'll break you. "

"That's for her to decide, not you. "

"I'll tell her myself. I'll face her right here and----"

"Now, look here, if you think I'm going to be let in for a holy showbetween you two girls, you got another think coming. One of us has gotto clear out of here, and quick, too. You been talking about the sidedoor; there it is. In five minutes I got a date in this place that Ithought I could keep like any law-abiding citizen. One of us has got toclear, and quick, too. Gad! you wimmin make me sick, the whole lot ofyou!"

"If anything makes you sick, I know what it is. It's dodging me to flyaround all hours of the night with May Scully, the girl who put the tangin tango. It's eating around in swell sixty-cent restaurants like thisand----"

"Gad! your middle name ought to be Nagalene. "

"Aw, now, Jimmie, maybe it does sound like nagging, but it ain't, honey. It--it's only my--my fear that I'm losing you, and--and my hate for theevery-day grind of things, and----"

"I can't help that, can I?"

"Why, there--there's nothing on God's earth I hate, Jimmie, like I hatethat Bargain-Basement. When I think it's down there in that manhole I'vespent the best years of my life, I--I wanna die. The day I get out ofit, the day I don't have to punch that old time-clock down there next tothe Complaints and Adjustment Desk, I--I'll never put my foot belowsidewalk level again to the hour I die. Not even if it was to take awalk in my own gold-mine. "

"It ain't exactly a garden of roses down there. "

"Why, I hate it so terrible, Jimmie, that sometimes I wake up nightsgritting my teeth with the smell of steam-pipes and the tramp of feet onthe glass sidewalk up over me. Oh, God! you dunno--you dunno!"

"When it comes to that, the main floor ain't exactly a maiden's dream, or a fellow's, for that matter. "

"With a man it's different. It's his job in life, earning, and--and thewoman making the two ends of it meet. That's why, Jimmie, these last twoyears and eight months, if not for what I was hoping for us, why--why--I--why, on your twenty a week, Jimmie, there's nobody couldrun a flat like I could. Why, the days wouldn't be long enough to putterin. I--Don't throw away what I been building up for us, Jimmie, step bystep! Don't, Jimmie!'

"Good Lord, girl! You deserve better'n me. "

"I know I got a big job, Jimmie, but I want to make a man out of you, temper, laziness, gambling, and all. You got it in you to be somethingmore than a tango lizard or a cigar-store bum, honey. It's only youain't got the stuff in you to stand up under a five-hundred-dollarwindfall and--a--and a sporty girl. If--if two glasses of beer make youas silly as they do, Jimmie, why, five hundred dollars would land youunder the table for life. "

"Aw--there you go again!"

"I can't help it, Jimmie. It's because I never knew a fellow had what'she's cut out for written all over him so. You're a born clerk, Jimmie. "

"Sure, I'm a slick clerk, but----"

"You're born to be a clerk, a good clerk, even a two-hundred-a-monthclerk, the way you can win the trade, but never your own boss. I knowwhat I'm talking about. I know your measure better than any human onearth can ever know your measure. I know things about you that you don'teven know yourself. "

"I never set myself up to nobody for anything I wasn't. "

"Maybe not, Jimmie, but I know about you and--and that Central Streetgang that time, and----"

"You!"

"Yes, honey, and there's not another human living but me knows howlittle it was your fault. Just bad company, that was all. That's howmuch I--I love you, Jimmie, enough to understand that. Why, if I thoughtMay Scully and a set-up in business was the thing for you, Jimmie, I'dsay to her, I'd say, if it was like taking my own heart out in my handand squashing it, I'd say to her, I'd say, 'Take him, May. ' That's howI--I love you, Jimmie. Oh, ain't it nothing, honey, a girl can come hereand lay herself this low to you----"

"Well, haven't I just said you--you deserve better. "

"I don't want better, Jimmie. I want you. I want to take hold of yourlife and finish the job of making it the kind we can both be proud of. Us two, Jimmie, in--in our own decent two-by-four. Shopping on Saturdaynights. Frying in our own frying-pan in our own kitchen. Listening toour own phonograph in our own parlor. Geraniums and--and kids--and--andthings. Gas-logs. Stationary washtubs. Jimmie! Jimmie!"

Mr. James P. Batch reached up for his hat and overcoat, cramming thenewspaper into a rear pocket. 

"Come on, " he said, stalking toward the side door and not waiting to seeher to her feet. 

Outside, a banner of stars was over the narrow street. For a chain offive blocks he walked, with a silence and speed that Miss Slayback couldonly match with a running quickstep. But she was not out of breath. Herhead was up, and her hand where it hooked into Mr. Batch's elbow, was ina vise that tightened with each block. 

You who will mete out no other approval than that vouched for by thestamp of time and whose contempt for the contemporary is from behind theeasy refuge of the classics, suffer you the shuddering analogy thatbetween Aspasia who inspired Pericles, Theodora who suggested theJustinian code, and Gertie Slayback who commandeered Jimmie Batch, is asistership which rounds them, like a lasso thrown back into time, intoone and the same petticoat dynasty behind the throne. 

True, Gertie Slayback's _mise en scène_ was a two-room kitchenetteapartment situated in the Bronx at a surveyor's farthest point betweentwo Subway stations, and her present state one of frequent red-facedforays down into a packing-case. But there was that in her eyes whichwitchingly bespoke the conquered, but not the conqueror. Hers wasactually the titillating wonder of a bird which, captured, closes itswings, that surrender can be so sweet. 

Once she sat on the edge of the packing-case, dallying with a hammer, then laid it aside suddenly, to cross the littered room and place theside of her head to the immaculate waistcoat of Mr. Jimmie Batch, red-faced, too, over wrenching up with hatchet-edge a barrel-top. 

"Jimmie darling, I--I just never will get over your finding this placefor us. "

Mr. Batch wiped his forearm across his brow, his voice jerking betweenthe squeak of nails extracted from wood. 

"It was you, honey. You give me the to let ad. And I came to look, that's all. "

"Just the samey, it was my boy found it. If you hadn't come to look wemight have been forced into taking that old dark coop over on SimpsonStreet. "

"What's all this junk in this barrel?"

"Them's kitchen utensils, honey. "

"Kitchen what?"

"Kitchen things that you don't know nothing about except to eat goodthings out of. "

"What's this?"

"Don't bend it! That's a celery-brush. Ain't it cute?"

"A celery-brush! Why didn't you get it a comb, too?"

"Ah, now, honey-bee, don't go trying to be funny and picking throughthese things you don't know nothing about! They're just cute things I'mgoing to cook something grand suppers in, for my something awful badboy. "

He leaned down to kiss her at that. "Gee!"

She was standing, her shoulder to him and head thrown back against hischest. She looked up to stroke his cheek, her face foreshortened. 

"I'm all black and blue pinching myself, Jimmie. "

"Me too. "

"Every night when I get home from working here in the flat I say tomyself in the looking-glass, I say, 'Gertie Slayback, what if you'reonly dreamin'?'"

"Me too. "

"I say to myself, 'Are you sure that darling flat up there, with the newpink-and-white wall-paper and the furniture arriving every day, is goingto be yours in a few days when you're Mrs. Jimmie Batch?'"

"Mrs. Jimmie Batch--say, that's immense. "

"I keep saying it to myself every night, 'One day less. ' Last night itwas two days. To-night it'll be--one day, Jimmie, till I'm--her. "

She closed her eyes and let her hand linger up to his cheek, head stillback against him, so that, inclining his head, he could rest his lips inthe ash-blond fluff of her hair. 

"Talk about can't wait! If to-morrow was any farther off they'd have tosweep out a padded cell for me. "

She turned to rumple the smooth light thatch of his hair. "Bad boy!Can't wait! And here we are getting married all of a sudden, just likethat. Up to the time of this draft business, Jimmie Batch, 'pretty soon'was the only date I could ever get out of you, and now here you arecrying over one day's wait. Bad honey boy!"

He reached back for the pink newspaper so habitually protruding from hiship-pocket. "You ought to see the way they're neck-breaking for themarriage-license bureaus since the draft. First thing we know the wholeshebang of the boys will be claiming exemption of sole support of wife. "

"It's a good thing we made up our minds quick, Jimmie. They'll begetting wise. If too many get exemption from the army by marrying rightaway, it'll be a give-away. "

"I'd like to know who can lay his hands on the exemption of a littlewife to support. "

"Oh, Jimmie, it--it sounds so funny. Being supported! Me that always didthe supporting, not only to me, but to my mother and great-grandmotherup to the day they died. "

"I'm the greatest little supporter you ever seen. "

"Me getting up mornings to stay at home in my own darling little flat, and no basement or time-clock. Nothing but a busy little hubby to eathim nice, smelly, bacon breakfast and grab him nice morning newspaper, kiss him wifie, and run downtown to support her. Jimmie, every morningfor your breakfast I'm going to fry----"

"You bet your life he's going to support her, and he's going to pay backthat forty dollars of his girl's that went into his wedding duds, thathundred and ninety of his girl's savings that went into furniture----"

"We got to meet our instalments every month first, Jimmie. That's whatwe want--no debts and every little darling piece of furniture paid up. "

"We--I'm going to pay it, too. "

"And my Jimmie is going to work to get himself promoted and quit being asorehead at his steady hours and all. "

"I know more about selling, honey, than the whole bunch of dubs in thatstore put together if they'd give me a chance to prove it. "

She laid her palm to his lips. 

"Shh-h-h! You don't nothing of the kind. It's not conceit, it's work isgoing to get my boy his raise. "

"If they'd listen to me, that department would----"

"Sh-h-h! J. G. Hoffheimer don't have to get pointers from Jimmie Batchhow to run his department store. "

"There you go again. What's J. G. Hoffheimer got that I ain't? Luck anda few dollars in his pocket that, if I had in mine, would----"

"It was his own grit put those dollars there, Jimmie. Just put it out ofyour head that it's luck makes a self-made man. "

"Self-made! You mean things just broke right for him. That's two-thirdsof this self-made business. "

"You mean he buckled right down to brass tacks, and that's what my boyis going to do. "

"The trouble with this world is it takes money to make money. Get yourfirst few dollars, I always say, no matter how, and then when you're onyour feet scratch your conscience if it itches. That's why I said in thebeginning, if we had took that hundred and ninety furniture money andstaked it on----"

"Jimmie, please--please! You wouldn't want to take a girl's savings ofyears and years to gamble on a sporty cigar proposition with a card-roomin the rear. You wouldn't, Jimmie. You ain't that kind of fellow. Tellme you wouldn't, Jimmie. "

He turned away to dive into the barrel. "Naw, " he said. "I wouldn't. "

The sun had receded, leaving a sudden sullen gray; the little squareroom, littered with an upheaval of excelsior, sheet-shrouded furniture, and the paper-hanger's paraphernalia and inimitable smells, darkeningand seeming to chill. 

"We got to quit now, Jimmie. It's getting dark and the gas ain't turnedon in the meter yet. "

He rose up out of the barrel, holding out at arm's-length what mighthave been a tinsmith's version of a porcupine. 

"What in-- What's this thing that scratched me?"

She danced to take it. "It's a grater, a darling grater for horseradishand nutmeg and cocoanut. I'm going to fix you a cocoanut cake for ourhoneymoon supper to-morrow night, honey-bee. Essie Wohlgemuth over inthe cake-demonstrating department is going to bring me the recipe. Cocoanut cake! And I'm going to fry us a little steak in this darlinglittle skillet. Ain't it the cutest!"

"Cute she calls a tin skillet. "

"Look what's pasted on it. 'Little Housewife's Skillet. The KitchenFairy. ' That's what I'm going to be, Jimmie, the kitchen fairy. Give methat. It's a rolling-pin. All my life I've wanted a rolling-pin. Lookhoney, a little string to hang it up by. I'm going to hang everything upin rows. It's going to look like Tiffany's kitchen, all shiny. Give me, honey; that's an egg-beater. Look at it whiz. And this--this is a panfor war bread. I'm going to make us war bread to help the soldiers. "

"You're a little soldier yourself, " he said. 

"That's what I would be if I was a man, a soldier all in brass buttons. "

"There's a bunch of the fellows going, " said Mr. Batch, standing at thewindow, looking out over roofs, dilly-dallying up and down on his heelsand breaking into a low, contemplative whistle. 

She was at his shoulder, peering over it. "You wouldn't be afraid, wouldyou, Jimmie?"

"You bet your life I wouldn't. "

She was tiptoes now, her arms creeping up to him. "Only my boy's got awife--a brand-new wifie to support, ain't he?"

"That's what he has, " said Mr. Batch, stroking her forearm, but stillgazing through and beyond whatever roofs he was seeing. 

"Jimmie!"

"Huh?"

"Look! We got a view of the Hudson River from our flat, just like welived on Riverside Drive. "

"All the Hudson River I can see is fifteen smokestacks and somebody'swash-line out. "

"It ain't so. We got a grand view. Look! Stand on tiptoe, Jimmie, likeme. There, between that water-tank on that black roof over there andthem two chimneys. See? Watch my finger. A little stream of somethingover there that moves. "

"No, I don't see. "

"Look, honey-bee, close! See that little streak?"

"All right, then, if you see it I see it. "

"To think we got a river view from our flat! It's like living in thecountry. I'll peek out at it all day long. God! honey, I just never willbe over the happiness of being done with basements. "

"It was swell of old Higgins to give us this half-Saturday. It showswhere you stood with the management, Gert--this and a five-dollar goldpiece. Lord knows they wouldn't pony up that way if it was me gettingmarried by myself. "

"It's because my boy ain't shown them down there yet the best that's inhim. You just watch his little safety-first wife see to it that from nowon he keeps up her record of never in seven years pushing the time-clockeven one minute late, and that he keeps his stock shelves O. K. Andshows his department he's a comer-on. "

"With that bunch of boobs a fellow's got a swell chance to getanywheres. "

"It's getting late, Jimmie. It don't look nice for us to stay here solate alone, not till--to-morrow. Ruby and Essie and Charley are going tomeet us in the minister's back parlor at ten sharp in the morning. Wecan be back here by noon and get the place cleared up enough to give 'ema little lunch, just a fun lunch without fixings. "

"I hope the old guy don't waste no time splicing us. It's one of thethings a fellow likes to have over with. "

"Jimmie! Why, it's the most beautiful thing in the world, like a gardenof lilies or--or something, a marriage ceremony is! You got the ringsafe, honey-bee, and the license?"

"Pinned in my pocket where you put 'em, Flirty Gertie. "

"Flirty Gertie! Now you'll begin teasing me with that all our life--theway I didn't slap your face that night when I should have. I justcouldn't have, honey. Goes to show we were just cut and dried for eachother, don't it? Me, a girl that never in her life let a fellow even bathis eyes at her without an introduction. But that night when you winked, honey--something inside of me just winked back. "

"My girl!"

"You mean it, boy? You ain't sorry about nothing, Jimmie?"

"Sorry? Well, I guess not!"

"You seen the way--she--May--you seen for yourself what she was, when weseen her walking, that next night after Ceiner's, nearly staggering, upSixth Avenue with Budge Evans. "

"I never took no stock in her, honey. I was just letting her like me. "

She sat back on the box edge, regarding him, her face so soft and wontto smile that she could not keep its composure. 

"Get me my hat and coat, honey. We'll walk down. Got the key?"

They skirmished in the gloom, moving through slit-like aisles offurniture and packing-box. 

"Ouch!"

"Oh, the running water is hot, Jimmie, just like the ad. Said! We gotred-hot running water in our flat. Close the front windows, honey. Wedon't want it to rain in on our new green sofa. Not till it's paid for, anyways. "

"Hurry. "

"I'm ready. "

They met at the door, kissing on the inside and the outside of it; atthe head of the fourth and the third and the second balustrade down. 

"We'll always make 'em little love landings, Jimmie, so we can't everget tired climbing them. "

"Yep. "

Outside there was still a pink glow in a clean sky. The first flush ofspring in the air had died, leaving chill. They walked briskly, arm inarm, down the asphalt incline of sidewalk leading from theirapartment-house, a new street of canned homes built on a hillside--thesepulchral abode of the city's trapped whose only escape is down thefire-escape, and then only when the alternative is death. At the base ofthe hill there flows, in constant hubbub, a great up-and-down artery ofstreet, repeating itself, mile after mile, in terms of the butcher, thebaker, and the every-other-corner drug-store of a million dollarcorporation. Housewives with perambulators and oilcloth shopping bags. Children on roller-skates. The din of small tradesmen and the humdrum ofevery city block where the homes remain unboarded all summer, and everywife is on haggling terms with the purveyor of her evening roundsteakand mess of rutabaga. 

Then there is the soap-box provender, too, sure of a crowd, offeringcreed, propaganda, patent medicine, and politics. It is the pulpit ofthe reformer and the housetop of the fanatic, this soap-box. From it thevoice to the city is often a pious one, an impious one, and almostalways a raucous one. Luther and Sophocles and even a Citizen ofNazareth made of the four winds of the street corner the walls of atemple of wisdom. What more fitting acropolis for freedom of speechthan the great out-of-doors!

Turning from the incline of cross-street into this petty Bagdad of thepetty wise, the voice of the street corner lifted itself above theinarticulate din of the thoroughfare. A youth, thewed like an ox, surmounted on a stack of three self-provided canned-goods boxes, hisin-at-the-waist silhouette thrown out against a sky that was almostready to break out in stars; a crowd tightening about him. 

"It's a soldier-boy talkin', Gert. "

"If it ain't!" They tiptoed at the fringe of the circle, heads back. 

"Look, Gert, he's a lieutenant; he's got a shoulder-bar. And those fourdown there holding the flag are just privates. You can always tell alieutenant by the bar. "

"Uh-huh. "

"Say, them boys do stack up some for Uncle Sam. "

"'Shh-h-h, Jimmie!"

"I'm here to tell you that them boys stack up some. "

A banner stiffened out in the breeze, Mr. Batch reading: "Enlist beforeyou are drafted. Last chance to beat the draft. Prove your patriotism. Enlist now! Your country calls!"

"Come on, " said Mr. Batch. 

"Wait. I want to hear what he's saying. "

" ... There's not a man here before me can afford to shirk his duty tohis country. The slacker can't get along without his country, but hiscountry can very easily get along without him. "

Cheers. 

"The poor exemption boobs are already running for doctors' certificatesand marriage licenses, but even if they get by with it--and it isninety-nine to one they won't--they can't run away from their owndegradation and shame. "

"Come on, Jimmie. "

"Wait. "

"Men of America, for every one of you who tries to dodge his duty tohis country there is a yellow streak somewhere underneath the hide ofyou. Women of America, every one of you that helps to foster the spiritof cowardice in your particular man or men is helping to make a coward. It's the cowards and the quitters and the slackers and dodgers that needthis war more than the patriotic ones who are willing to buckle on andgo!

"Don't be a buttonhole patriot! A government that is good enough to liveunder is good enough to fight under!"

Cheers. 

"If there is any reason on earth that has manifested itself for thisdevastating and terrible war it is that it has been a maker of men. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am back from four months in the trenches withthe French army, and I've come home, now that my own country is at war, to give her every ounce of energy I've got to offer. As soon as a holein my side is healed up I'm going back to those trenches, and I want tosay to you that them four months of mine face to face with life and withdeath have done more for me than all my twenty-four civilian years puttogether. "

Cheers. 

"I'll be a different man, if I live to come back home after this war andtake up my work again as a draftsman. Why, I've seen weaklings andself-confessed failures and even ninnies go into them trenches and comeout--oh yes, plenty of them do come out--men. Men that have got closeenough down to the facts of things to feel new realizations of what lifemeans come over them. Men that have gotten back their pep, theirambitions, their unselfishness. That's what war can do for your men, youwomen who are helping them to foster the spirit of holding back, ofcheating their government. That's what war can do for your men. Make ofthem the kind of men who some day can face their children withouthaving to hang their heads. Men who can answer for their part in makingthe world a safe place for democracy. "

An hour they stood there, the air quieting but chilling, and lavishlysown stars cropping out. Street lights had come out, too, throwing up inever darker relief the figure above the heads of the crowd. His voicehad coarsened and taken on a raw edge, but every gesture was flung fromthe socket, and from where they had forced themselves into the tightcircle Gertie Slayback, her mouth fallen open and her head still back, could see the sinews of him ripple under khaki and the diaphragm liftfor voice. 

There was a shift of speakers then, this time a private, still toorangy, but his looseness of frame seeming already to conform to theexigency of uniform. 

"Come on, Jimmie. I--I'm cold. "

They worked out into the freedom of the sidewalk, and for ten minutes, down blocks of petty shops already lighted, walked in a silence thatgrew apace. 

He was suddenly conscious that she was crying, quietly, her handkerchiefwadded against her mouth. He strode on with a scowl and his head bent. 

"Let's sit down in this little park, Jimmie. I'm tired. "

They rested on a bench on one of those small triangles ofbreathing-space which the city ekes out now and then; mill ends of landparcels. 

He took immediately to roving the toe of his shoe in and out among thegravel. She stole out her hand to his arm. 

"Well, Jimmie?" Her voice was in the gauze of a whisper that hardly lefther throat. 

"Well, what?" he said, still toeing. 

"There--there's a lot of things we never thought about, Jimmie. "

"Aw!"

"Eh, Jimmie?"

"You mean _you_ never thought about. "

"What do you mean?"

"I know what I mean alrighty. "

"I--I was the one that suggested it, Jimmie, but--but you fell in. I--Ijust couldn't bear to think of it, Jimmie--your going and all. Isuggested it, but--you fell in. "

"Say, when a fellow's shoved he falls. I never gave a thought tosneaking an exemption until it was put in my head. I'd smash the fellowin the face that calls me coward, I will. "

"You could have knocked me down with a feather, Jimmie, looking at ithis way, all of a sudden. "

"You couldn't me. Don't think I was ever strong for the whole business. I mean the exemption part. I wasn't going to say nothing. What's theuse, seeing the way you had your heart set on--on things? But the wholebusiness, if you want to know it, went against my grain. I'll smash thefellow in the face that calls me a coward. "

"I know, Jimmie; you--you're right. It was me suggested hurrying thingslike this. Sneakin'! Oh, God! ain't I the messer-up!"

"Lay easy, girl. I'm going to see it through. I guess there's beenfellows before me and will be after me who have done worse. I'm going tosee it through. All I got to say is I'll smash up the fellow calls mecoward. Come on, forget it. Let's go. "

She was close to him, her cheek crinkled against his with the frank kindof social unconsciousness the park bench seems to engender. 

"Come on, Gert. I got a hunger on. "

"'Shh-h-h, Jimmie! Let me think. I'm thinking. "

"Too much thinking killed a cat. Come on. "

"Jimmie!"

"Huh?"

"Jimmie--would you--had you ever thought about being a soldier?"

"Sure. I came in an ace of going into the army that time after--afterthat little Central Street trouble of mine. I've got a book in my trunkthis minute on military tactics. Wouldn't surprise me a bit to see meland in the army some day. "

"It's a fine thing, Jimmie, for a fellow--the army. "

"Yeh, good for what ails him. "

She drew him back, pulling at his shoulder so that finally he faced her. "Jimmie!"

"Huh?"

"I got an idea. "

"Shoot. "

"You remember once, honey-bee, how I put it to you that night atCeiner's how, if it was for your good, no sacrifice was too much tomake. "

"Forget it. "

"You didn't believe it. "

"Aw, say now, what's the use digging up ancient history?"

"You'd be right, Jimmie, not to believe it. I haven't lived up to what Isaid. "

"Oh Lord, honey! What's eating you now? Come to the point. "

She would not meet his eyes, turning her head from him to hide lips thatwould quiver. "Honey, it--it ain't coming off--that's all. Notnow--anyways. "

"What ain't?"

"Us. "

"Who?"

"You know what I mean, Jimmie. It's like everything the soldier boy onthe corner just said. I--I saw you getting red clear behind your earsover it. I--I was, too, Jimmie. It's like that soldier boy was put thereon that corner just to show me, before it was too late, how wrong I beenin every one of my ways. Us women who are helping to foster slackers. That's what we're making of them--slackers for life. And here I beenthinking it was your good I had in mind, when all along it's been mine. That's what it's been, mine!"

"Aw, now, Gert----"

"You got to go, Jimmie. You got to go, because you want to goand--because I want you to go. "

"Where?"

"To war. "

He took hold of her two arms because they were trembling. "Aw, now, Gert, I didn't say anything complaining. I----"

"You did, Jimmie, you did, and--and I never was so glad over you thatyou did complain. I just never was so glad. I want you to go, Jimmie. Iwant you to go and get a man made out of you. They'll make a better jobout of you than ever I can. I want you to get the yellow streak washedout. I want you to get to be all the things he said you would. For everyline he was talking up there, I could see my boy coming home to me someday better than anything I could make out of him, babying him the way Ican't help doing. I could see you, honey-bee, coming back to me with thekind of lift to your head a fellow has when he's been fighting to makethe world a safe place for dem--for whatever it was he said. I want youto go, Jimmie. I want you to beat the draft, too. Nothing on earth canmake me not want you to go. "

"Why, Gert--you're kiddin'!"

"Honey, you want to go, don't you? You want to square up those shouldersand put on khaki, don't you? Tell me you want to go!"

"Why--why, yes, Gert, if----"

"Oh, you're going, Jimmie! You're going!"

"Why, girl--you're crazy! Our flat! Our furniture--our----"

"What's a flat? What's furniture? What's anything? There's not a firm inbusiness wouldn't take back a boy's furniture--a boy'severything--that's going out to fight for--for dem-o-cracy! What's aflat? What's anything?"

He let drop his head to hide his eyes. 

Do you know it is said that on the Desert of Sahara, the slope ofSorrento, and the marble of Fifth Avenue the sun can shine whitest?There is an iridescence to its glittering on bleached sand, blue bay, and Carrara façade that is sheer light distilled to its utmost. 

On one such day when, standing on the high slope of Fifth Avenue whereit rises toward the Park, and looking down on it, surging to and fro, itwas as if, so manifest the brilliancy, every head wore a tin helmet, parrying sunlight at a thousand angles of refraction. 

Parade-day, all this glittering midstream is swept to the clean sheen ofa strip of moiré, this splendid desolation blocked on each side bycrowds half the density of the sidewalk. 

On one of these sun-drenched Saturdays dedicated by a growing traditionto this or that national expression, the Ninety-ninth Regiment, to aflare of music that made the heart leap out against its walls, turnedinto a scene thus swept clean for it, a wave of olive drab, impeccablerow after impeccable row of scissors-like legs advancing. Recruits, rawif you will, but already caparisoned, sniffing and scenting, as it were, for the great primordial mire of war. 

There is no state of being so finely sensitized as nationalconsciousness. A gauntlet down, and it surges up. One ripple of a flagdefended can goose-flesh a nation. How bitter and how sweet it is togive a soldier!

To the seething kinetic chemistry of such mingling emotions there werewomen who stood in the frontal crowds of the sidewalks stiflinghysteria, or ran after in terror at sight of one so personally hers, receding in that great impersonal wave of olive drab. 

And yet the air was martial with banner and with shout. And the ecstasyof such moments is like a dam against reality, pressing it back. It isin the pompless watches of the night or of too long days that such damsbreak, excoriating. 

For the thirty blocks of its course Gertie Slayback followed that waveof men, half run and half walk. Down from the curb, and at the beck andcall of this or that policeman up again, only to find opportunity forstill another dive out from the invisible roping off of the sidewalkcrowds. 

From the middle of his line, she could see, sometimes, the tail ofJimmie Batch's glance roving for her, but to all purports his eye wassolely for his own replica in front of him, and at such times, when hemarched, his back had a little additional straightness that was almostswayback. 

Nor was Gertie Slayback crying. On the contrary, she was inclined tolaughter. A little too inclined to a high and brittle sort of dissonanceover which she seemed to have no control. 

"'By, Jimmie. So long! Jimmie! You-hoo!"

Tramp. Tramp. Tramp-tramp-tramp. 

"You-hoo! Jimmie! So long, Jimmie!"

At Fourteenth Street, and to the solemn stroke of one from a tower, shebroke off suddenly without even a second look back, dodging under thevery arms of the crowd as she ran out from it. 

She was one and three-quarter minutes late when she punched thetime-clock beside the Complaints and Adjustment Desk in theBargain-Basement. 

FANNIE HURST

"I find myself at twenty-nine exactly where at fourteen I had planned Iwould be. " So Miss Hurst, in a sketch written for the _AmericanMagazine_ (March, 1919), sums up the story of a remarkable literarycareer. 

Fannie Hurst was born in St. Louis, October 19, 1889. She attended thepublic schools, and began to write--with the firm intention of becomingan author--before she was out of grammar school. "At fourteen, " shetells us in the article just referred to, "the one pigeon-hole of mylittle girl's desk was already stuffed with packets of rejected versewhich had been furtively written, furtively mailed, and still morefurtively received back again by heading off the postman a block beforehe reached our door. " To this dream of authorship--the secret of whichwas carefully guarded from her family--she sacrificed her play and evenher study hours. The first shock to her family came on St. Valentine'sDay. There was to be a party that night, her first real party. A newdress was ready for the occasion, and a boy escort was to call for herin a cab. It happened that Valentine's day fell on Saturday, andSaturday was her time for writing. That day she turned from poetry tofiction, and was just in the middle of her first story when it came timeto get ready for the party. She did not get ready. The escort arrived, cab and all; the family protested, but all to no purpose. She finishedthe story, mailed it, three weeks later received it back, and began hersecond story. All through her high school days she mailed a manuscriptevery Saturday, and they always came back. 

After high school she entered Washington University, St. Louis, graduating in 1909. And still she kept writing. To one journal aloneshe sent during those four years, thirty-four short stories. And theyall came back--all but one. Just before graduation she sold her firstarticle, a little sketch first written as a daily theme, which waspublished in a local weekly, and brought her three dollars. This was thetotal result of eight years' literary effort. So quite naturally shedetermined to go on. 

She announced to her family that she was going to New York City tobecome a writer. There was a stormy discussion in the Hurst family, butit ended in her going away, with a bundle of manuscripts in her trunk, to brave the big city alone. She found a tiny furnished room and setforth to besiege the editors' offices. One evening she returned, to findthe house being raided, a patrol wagon at the curb, and the lodgersbeing hustled into it. She crossed the street and walked on, and neversaw her bag or baggage again. By the help of the Young Women's ChristianAssociation she found another room, in different surroundings, and setout again to make the round of the editorial offices. 

Then followed months and months of "writing, rewriting, rejections, andre-rejections. " From home came letters now beseeching, now commandingher to return, and at length cutting off her allowance. So she returnedher rented typewriter and applied at a theatrical agency. She secured asmall part in a Broadway company, and then came her first acceptance ofa story, with an actual check for thirty dollars. She left the stage andrented another typewriter, --but it was six months before she soldanother story. 

In all this time she dipped deeply into the great stream of the city'slife. To quote her own account:

 For a month I lived with an Armenian family on West Broadway, in a room over a tobacconist's shop. I apprenticed myself as a sales-girl in New York's most gigantic department store. Four and one-quarter yards of ribbon at seven and a half cents a yard proved my Waterloo, and my resignation at the end of one week was not entirely voluntary. I served as waitress in one of New York's most gigantic chain of white-tiled lunch rooms. I stitched boys' pants in a Polish sweatshop, and lived for two days in New York's most rococo hotel. I took a graduate course in Anglo Saxon at Columbia University, and one in lamp-shade making at Wanamaker's: wormed into a Broadway musical show as wardrobe girl, and went out on a self-appointed newspaper assignment to interview the mother of the richest baby in the world. 

All these experiences yielded rich material for stories, but no onewould print them. Her money was gone; so was a diamond ring that hadbeen a Commencement present; it seemed as if there was nothing left butto give up the struggle and go back home. Then, just as she had struckbottom, an editor actually told her she could write, and followed up hisremark by buying three stories. Since that time she has never had astory rejected, and her checks have gone up from two figures into four. And so, at the end of a long fight, as she says, "I find myself attwenty-nine exactly where at fourteen I had planned I would be. And bestof all, what popular success I am enjoying has come not from panderingto popular demand or editorial policy, but from pandering to my owninner convictions, which are like little soul-tapers, lighting the way. "

All her work has been in the form of the short story. Her first book, _Just Around the Corner_, published in 1914, is a collection of storiesdealing with the life of working girls in a city. _Every Soul Hath ItsSong_ is a similar collection; the title suggests the author's outlookupon life. Some one has said that in looking at a puddle of water, youmay see either the mud at the bottom or the sky reflected on itssurface. Miss Hurst sees the reflection of the sky. The _BostonTranscript_ said of this book: "Here at last is a story writer who isbent on listening to the voices of America and interpreting them. "_Gaslight Sonatas_, from which "Bitter-Sweet" is taken, showed anadvance over her earlier work. Two of the stories from this volume wereselected by Mr. O'Brien for his volume, _Best Short Stories_, for 1916and 1917. _Humoresque_, her latest work, continues her studies of citytypes, drawn from New York and St. Louis. The stories show her insightinto character and her graphic descriptive power. Miss Hurst is also theauthor of two plays, _The Land of the Free_ and _The Good Provider_. 

IN THE LUMBER COUNTRY

_The men of the woods are not as the men of the cities. The great openspaces where men battle with the primeval forest set their mark upontheir inhabitants, not only in physique but in character. Thelumberman, --rough, frank, independent, humorous, equally ready for afight or a frolic, has been portrayed at full length by Stewart EdwardWhite in_ THE BLAZED TRAIL _and_ THE RIVERMAN. _In the following sketch, taken from his_ BLAZED TRAIL STORIES, _he shows the lumberman at workand at play. _

THE RIVERMAN

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

I first met him one Fourth of July afternoon in the middle eighties. Thesawdust streets and high board sidewalks of the lumber town were filledto the brim with people. The permanent population, dressed in thestiffness of its Sunday best, escorted gingham wives or sweethearts; adozen outsiders like myself tried not to be too conspicuous in a citysmartness; but the great multitude was composed of the men of the woods. I sat, chair-tilted by the hotel, watching them pass. Their heavywoollen shirts crossed by the broad suspenders, the red of their sashesor leather shine of their belts, their short kersey trousers "stagged"off to leave a gap between the knee and the heavily spiked "corkboots"--all these were distinctive enough of their class, but mostinteresting to me were the eyes that peered from beneath their littleround hats tilted rakishly askew. They were all subtly alike, thoseeyes. Some were black, some were brown, or gray, or blue, but all weresteady and unabashed, all looked straight at you with a strange humorousblending of aggression and respect for your own business, and allwithout exception wrinkled at the corners with a suggestion of dryhumor. In my half-conscious scrutiny I probably stared harder than Iknew, for all at once a laughing pair of blue eyes suddenly met minefull, and an ironical voice drawled, "Say, bub, you look as interested as a man killing snakes. Am I yourlong-lost friend?"

The tone of the voice matched accurately the attitude of the man, andthat was quite non-committal. He stood cheerfully ready to meet theemergency. If I sought trouble, it was here to my hand; or if I neededhelp he was willing to offer it. 

"I guess you are, " I replied, "if you can tell me what all this outfit'sheaded for. "

He thrust back his hat and ran his hand through a mop of closely croppedlight curls. 

"Birling match, " he explained briefly. "Come on. "

I joined him, and together we followed the crowd to the river, where weroosted like cormorants on adjacent piles overlooking a patch of clearwater among filled booms. 

"Drive just over, " my new friend informed me. "Rear come down lastnight. Fourther July celebration. This little town will scratch fer th'tall timber along about midnight when the boys goes in to take herapart. "

A half-dozen men with peavies rolled a white-pine log of about a footand a half in diameter into the clear water, where it lay rocking backand forth, three or four feet from the boom piles. Suddenly a man ranthe length of the boom, leaped easily into the air, and landed with bothfeet square on one end of the floating log. That end disappeared in anankle-deep swirl of white foam, the other rose suddenly, the wholetimber, projected forward by the shock, drove headlong to the middle ofthe little pond. And the man, his arms folded, his knees just bent inthe graceful nervous attitude of the circus-rider, stood upright like astatue of bronze. 

A roar approved this feat. 

"That's Dickey Darrell, " said my informant, "Roaring Dick. He's hell_and_ repeat. Watch him. "

The man on the log was small, with clean beautiful haunches andshoulders, but with hanging baboon arms. Perhaps his most strikingfeature was a mop of reddish-brown hair that overshadowed a littletriangular white face accented by two reddish-brown quadrilaterals thatserved as eyebrows and a pair of inscrutable chipmunk eyes. 

For a moment he poised erect in the great calm of the public performer. Then slowly he began to revolve the log under his feet. The lofty gaze, the folded arms, the straight supple waist budged not by a hair'sbreadth; only the feet stepped forward, at first deliberately, thenfaster and faster, until the rolling log threw a blue spray a foot intothe air. Then suddenly _slap! slap!_ the heavy caulks stamped areversal. The log came instantaneously to rest, quivering exactly likesome animal that had been spurred through its paces. 

"Magnificent!" I cried. 

"Hell, that's nothing!" my companion repressed me, "anybody can birl alog. Watch this. "

Roaring Dick for the first time unfolded his arms. With some appearanceof caution he balanced his unstable footing into absolute immobility. Then he turned a somersault. 

This was the real thing. My friend uttered a wild yell of applause whichwas lost in a general roar. 

A long pike-pole shot out, bit the end of the timber, and towed it tothe boom pile. Another man stepped on the log with Darrell. They stoodfacing each other, bent-kneed, alert. Suddenly with one accord theycommenced to birl the log from left to right. The pace grew hot. Likesquirrels treading a cage their feet twinkled. Then it became apparentthat Darrell's opponent was gradually being forced from the top of thelog. He could not keep up. Little by little, still moving desperately, he dropped back to the slant, then at last to the edge, and so off intothe river with a mighty splash. 

"Clean birled!" commented my friend. 

One after another a half-dozen rivermen tackled the imperturbable Dick, but none of them possessed the agility to stay on top in the pace he setthem. One boy of eighteen seemed for a moment to hold his own, andmanaged at least to keep out of the water even when Darrell hadapparently reached his maximum speed. But that expert merely threw hisentire weight into two reversing stamps of his feet, and the youngfellow dove forward as abruptly as though he had been shied over ahorse's head. 

The crowd was by now getting uproarious and impatient of volunteereffort to humble Darrell's challenge. It wanted the best, and at once. It began, with increasing insistence, to shout a name. 

"Jimmy Powers!" it vociferated, "Jimmy Powers!"

And then by shamefaced bashfulness, by profane protest, by muttered andcomprehensive curses I knew that my companion on the other pile wasindicated. 

A dozen men near at hand began to shout. "Here he is!" they cried. "Comeon, Jimmy. " "Don't be a high banker. " "Hang his hide on the fence. "

Jimmy, still red and swearing, suffered himself to be pulled from hiselevation and disappeared in the throng. A moment later I caught hishead and shoulders pushing toward the boom piles, and so in a moment hestepped warily aboard to face his antagonist. 

This was evidently no question to be determined by the simplicity offorce or the simplicity of a child's trick. The two men stoodhalf-crouched, face to face, watching each other narrowly, but making nomove. To me they seemed like two wrestlers sparring for an opening. Slowly the log revolved one way; then slowly the other. It was a merecourtesy of salute. All at once Dick birled three rapid strokes fromleft to right as though about to roll the log, leaped into the air andlanded square with both feet on the other slant of the timber. JimmyPowers felt the jar, and acknowledged it by a spasmodic jerk with whichhe counterbalanced Darrell's weight. But he was not thrown. 

As though this daring and hazardous manoeuvre had opened the combat, both men sprang to life. Sometimes the log rolled one way, sometimes theother, sometimes it jerked from side to side like a crazy thing, butalways with the rapidity of light, always in a smother of spray andfoam. The decided _spat, spat, spat_ of the reversing blows from thecaulked boots sounded like picket firing. I could not make out thedifferent leads, feints, parries, and counters of this strange method ofboxing, nor could I distinguish to whose initiative the variousevolutions of that log could be ascribed. But I retain still a vividmental picture of two men nearly motionless above the waist, nearlyvibrant below it, dominating the insane gyrations of a stick of pine. 

The crowd was appreciative and partisan--for Jimmy Powers. It howledwildly, and rose thereby to even higher excitement. Then it forgot itsmanners utterly and groaned when it made out that a sudden splashrepresented its favorite, while the indomitable Darrell still trod thequarter-deck as champion birler for the year. 

I must confess I was as sorry as anybody. I climbed down from mycormorant roost, and picked my way between the alleys of aromatic piledlumber in order to avoid the press, and cursed the little gods heartilyfor undue partiality in the wrong direction. In this manner I happenedon Jimmy Powers himself seated dripping on a board and examining hisbare foot. 

"I'm sorry, " said I behind him. "How did he do it?"

He whirled, and I could see that his laughing boyish face had becomesuddenly grim and stern, and that his eyes were shot with blood. 

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he growled disparagingly. "Well, that's how hedid it. "

He held out his foot. Across the instep and at the base of the toes rantwo rows of tiny round punctures from which the blood was oozing. Ilooked very inquiring. 

"He corked me!" Jimmy Powers explained. "Jammed his spikes into me!Stepped on my foot and tripped me, the----" Jimmy Powers certainly couldswear. 

"Why didn't you make a kick?" I cried. 

"That ain't how I do it, " he muttered, pulling on his heavy woollensock. 

"But no, " I insisted, my indignation mounting. "It's an outrage! Thatcrowd was with you. All you had to do was to _say_ something----"

He cut me short. "And give myself away as a damn fool--sure Mike. Iought to know Dickey Darrell by this time, and I ought to be big enoughto take care of myself. " He stamped his foot into his driver's shoe andtook me by the arm, his good humor apparently restored. "No, don't loseany hair, bub; I'll get even with Roaring Dick. "

That night, having by the advice of the proprietor moved my bureau andtrunk against the bedroom door, I lay wide awake listening to the takingof the town apart. At each especially vicious crash I wondered if thatmight be Jimmy Powers getting even with Roaring Dick. 

The following year, but earlier in the season, I again visited my littlelumber town. In striking contrast to the life of that other midsummerday were the deserted streets. The landlord knew me, and after I hadwashed and eaten approached me with a suggestion. 

"You got all day in front of you, " said he; "why don't you take a horseand buggy and make a visit to the big jam? Everybody's up there more orless. "

In response to my inquiry, he replied:

"They've jammed at the upper bend, jammed bad. The crew's been pickingat her for near a week now, and last night Darrell was down to see aboutsome more dynamite. It's worth seein'. The breast of her is near thirtyfeet high, and lots of water in the river. "

"Darrell?" said I, catching at the name. 

"Yes. He's rear boss this year. Do you think you'd like to take a lookat her?"

"I think I should, " I assented. 

The horse and I jogged slowly along a deep sand road, through wastes ofpine stumps and belts of hardwood beautiful with the early spring, untilfinally we arrived at a clearing in which stood two huge tents, amammoth kettle slung over a fire of logs, and drying racks about thetimbers of another fire. A fat cook in the inevitable battered derbyhat, two bare-armed cookees, and a chore "boy" of seventy-odd summerswere the only human beings in sight. One of the cookees agreed to keepan eye on my horse. I picked my way down a well-worn trail toward theregular _clank, clank, click_ of the peavies. 

I emerged finally to a plateau elevated some fifty or sixty feet abovethe river. A half-dozen spectators were already gathered. Among them Icould not but notice a tall, spare, broad-shouldered young fellowdressed in a quiet business suit, somewhat wrinkled, whose square, strong, clean-cut face and muscular hands were tanned by the weather toa dark umber-brown. In another moment I looked down on the jam. 

The breast, as my landlord had told me, rose sheer from the water to theheight of at least twenty-five feet, bristling and formidable. Back ofit pressed the volume of logs packed closely in an apparentlyinextricable tangle as far as the eye could reach. A man near informedme that the tail was a good three miles up stream. From beneath thiswonderful _chevaux de frise_ foamed the current of the river, irresistible to any force less mighty than the statics of such a mass. 

A crew of forty or fifty men were at work. They clamped their peavies tothe reluctant timbers, heaved, pushed, slid, and rolled them one by oneinto the current, where they were caught and borne away. They had beendoing this for a week. As yet their efforts had made but slightimpression on the bulk of the jam, but some time, with patience, theywould reach the key-logs. Then the tangle would melt like sugar in thefreshet, and these imperturbable workers would have to escape suddenlyover the plunging logs to shore. 

My eye ranged over the men, and finally rested on Dickey Darrell. Hewas standing on the slanting end of an upheaved log dominating thescene. His little triangular face with the accents of the quadrilateraleyebrows was pale with the blaze of his energy, and his chipmunk eyesseemed to flame with a dynamic vehemence that caused those on whom theyfell to jump as though they had been touched with a hot poker. I hadheard more of Dickey Darrell since my last visit, and was glad of thechance to observe Morrison & Daly's best "driver" at work. 

The jam seemed on the very edge of breaking. After half an hour'sstrained expectation it seemed still on the very edge of breaking. So Isat down on a stump. Then for the first time I noticed anotheracquaintance, handling his peavie near the very person of the rear boss. 

"Hullo, " said I to myself, "that's funny. I wonder if Jimmy Powers goteven; and if so, why he is working so amicably and so near RoaringDick. "

At noon the men came ashore for dinner. I paid a quarter into the cook'sprivate exchequer and so was fed. After the meal I approached myacquaintance of the year before. 

"Hello, Powers, " I greeted him, "I suppose you don't remember me?"

"Sure, " he responded heartily. "Ain't you a little early this year?"

"No, " I disclaimed, "this is a better sight than a birling match. "

I offered him a cigar, which he immediately substituted for his corn-cobpipe. We sat at the root of a tree. 

"It'll be a great sight when that jam pulls, " said I. 

"You bet, " he replied, "but she's a teaser. Even old Tim Shearer wouldhave a picnic to make out just where the key-logs are. We've started herthree times, but she's plugged tight every trip. Likely to pull almostany time. "

We discussed various topics. Finally I ventured:

"I see your old friend Darrell is rear boss. "

"Yes, " said Jimmy Powers, dryly. 

"By the way, did you fellows ever square up on that birling match?"

"No, " said Jimmy Powers; then after an instant, "Not yet. "

I glanced at him to recognize the square set to the jaw that hadimpressed me so formidably the year before. And again his face relaxedalmost quizzically as he caught sight of mine. 

"Bub, " said he, getting to his feet, "those little marks are on my footyet. And just you tie into one idea: Dickey Darrel's got it coming. " Hisface darkened with a swift anger. "God damn his soul!" he said, deliberately. It was no mere profanity. It was an imprecation, and inits very deliberation I glimpsed the flare of an undying hate. 

About three o'clock that afternoon Jimmy's prediction was fulfilled. Without the slightest warning the jam "pulled. " Usually certainpremonitory _cracks_, certain sinkings down, groanings forward, grumblings, shruggings, and sullen, reluctant shiftings of the logs giveopportunity for the men to assure their safety. This jam, afterinexplicably hanging fire for a week, as inexplicably started like asprinter almost into its full gait. The first few tiers toppled smashinto the current, raising a waterspout like that made by a dynamiteexplosion; the mass behind plunged forward blindly, rising and fallingas the integral logs were up-ended, turned over, thrust one side, orforced bodily into the air by the mighty power playing jack-straws withthem. 

The rivermen, though caught unaware, reached either bank. They heldtheir peavies across their bodies as balancing-poles, and zig-zaggedashore with a calmness and lack of haste that were in reality only anindication of the keenness with which they fore-estimated each chance. Long experience with the ways of saw-logs brought them out. They knewthe correlation of these many forces just as the expert billiard-playerknows instinctively the various angles of incident and reflectionbetween his cue-ball and its mark. Consequently they avoided the centersof eruption, paused on the spots steadied for the moment, dodged movinglogs, trod those not yet under way, and so arrived on solid ground. Thejam itself started with every indication of meaning business, gainedmomentum for a hundred feet, and then plugged to a standstill. The"break" was abortive. 

Now we all had leisure to notice two things. First, the movement had notbeen of the whole jam, as we had at first supposed, but only of a blockor section of it twenty rods or so in extent. Thus between the part thathad moved and the greater bulk that had not stirred lay a hundred feetof open water in which floated a number of loose logs. The second factwas, that Dickey Darrell had fallen into that open stretch of water andwas in the act of swimming toward one of the floating logs. That much wewere given time to appreciate thoroughly. Then the other section of thejam rumbled and began to break. Roaring Dick was caught between twogigantic millstones moving to crush him out of sight. 

An active figure darted down the tail of the first section, out over thefloating logs, seized Darrell by the coat-collar, and so burdened begandesperately to scale the very face of the breaking jam. 

Never was a more magnificent rescue. The logs were rolling, falling, diving against the laden man. He climbed as over a treadmill, atreadmill whose speed was constantly increasing. And when he finallygained the top, it was as the gap closed splintering beneath him and theman he had saved. 

It is not in the woodsman to be demonstrative at any time, but here waswork demanding attention. Without a pause for breath or congratulationthey turned to the necessity of the moment. The jam, the whole jam, wasmoving at last. Jimmy Powers ran ashore for his peavie. Roaring Dick, like a demon incarnate, threw himself into the work. Forty men attackedthe jam in a dozen places, encouraging the movement, twisting aside thetimbers that threatened to lock anew, directing pigmy-like the titanicforces into the channel of their efficiency. Roaring like wild cattlethe logs swept by, at first slowly, then with the railroad rush of thecurbed freshet. Men were everywhere, taking chances, like cowboys beforethe stampeded herd. And so, out of sight around the lower bend swept thefront of the jam in a swirl of glory, the rivermen riding the great boomback of the creature they subdued, until at last, with the slackeningcurrent, the logs floated by free, cannoning with hollow sound oneagainst the other. A half-dozen watchers, leaning statuesquely on theshafts of their peavies, watched the ordered ranks pass by. 

One by one the spectators departed. At last only myself and thebrown-faced young man remained. He sat on a stump, staring withsightless eyes into vacancy. I did not disturb his thoughts. 

The sun dipped. A cool breeze of evening sucked up the river. Over nearthe cook-camp a big fire commenced to crackle by the drying frames. Atdusk the rivermen straggled in from the down-river trail. 

The brown-faced young man arose and went to meet them. I saw him returnin close conversation with Jimmy Powers. Before they reached us he hadturned away with a gesture of farewell. 

Jimmy Powers stood looking after him long after his form haddisappeared, and indeed even after the sound of his wheels had diedtoward town. As I approached, the riverman turned to me a face fromwhich the reckless, contained self-reliance of the woods-worker hadfaded. It was wide-eyed with an almost awe-stricken wonder andadoration. 

"Do you know who that is?" he asked me in a hushed voice. "That'sThorpe, Harry Thorpe. And do you know what he said to me just now, _me_?He told me he wanted me to work in Camp One next winter, Thorpe's One. And he told me I was the first man he ever hired straight into One. "

His breath caught with something like a sob. 

I had heard of the man and of his methods. I knew he had made it apractice of recruiting for his prize camp only from the employees of hisother camps, that, as Jimmy said, he never "hired straight into One. " Ihad heard, too, of his reputation among his own and other woodsmen. Butthis was the first time I had ever come into personal contact with hisinfluence. It impressed me the more in that I had come to know JimmyPowers and his kind. 

"You deserve it, every bit, " said I. "I'm not going to call you a hero, because that would make you tired. What you did this afternoon showednerve. It was a brave act. But it was a better act because your rescuedyour enemy, because you forgot everything but your common humanity whendanger----"

I broke off. Jimmy was again looking at me with his ironically quizzicalgrin. 

"Bub, " said he, "if you're going to hang any stars of Bethlehem on myChristmas tree, just call a halt right here. I didn't rescue thatscalawag because I had any Christian sentiments, nary bit. I was justnaturally savin' him for the birling match next Fourther July. "

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

There are some authors whom we think of as bookmen; there are otherswhom we think of as men first, and as writers secondarily. Lowell, forexample was a bookman; Roosevelt was a man of action who wrote books. Stewart Edward White, far more of a literary artist than Roosevelt, gives like him the impression of a man who has done things, of one wholives a full life, and produces books as a sort of by-product: veryvaluable, but not the chief end of existence. 

Mr. White was born in a small town near Grand Rapids, Michigan, March12, 1873. His parents had their own ideas about bringing up children. Instead of sending him to school they sent for a teacher to instructhim, they encouraged him to read, they took him traveling, not only tocities but to the silent places, the great forests, and to the lumbercamps. He spent four years in California, and became a good horseman, making many trips in the saddle to the picturesque old ranches. Whenfinally, he entered high school, at sixteen, he went in with boys of hisown age, and graduated at eighteen, president of his class. And what hewas most proud of was that he won and still holds, the five-mile runningrecord of his school. He was intensely interested in birds at this time, and spent all his spare hours in the woods, studying bird-life. Theresult was a series of articles on birds, published in variousscientific journals, --papers whose columns are not usually open to highschool contributors. 

Then came a college course at the University of Michigan, with vacationsspent in cruising about the Great Lakes in a twenty-eight-foot cuttersloop. After graduation he worked for a time in a packing house, thenhearing of the discovery of gold in the Black Hills, he set off withthe other gold-diggers. He did not find a mine, but the experience gavehim a background for two later novels, _The Claim Jumpers_, and _TheWesterners_. 

He went east for a year of graduate study at Columbia University. Likemany other students, he found a friend in Professor Brander Matthews, who encouraged him to write of some of his western experiences. He solda few short stories to magazines, and his first novel, _The ClaimJumpers_ was accepted by Appleton's. _The Westerners_, his next book, brought him $500 for the serial rights, and with its publication hedefinitely determined upon making authorship his calling. But it was notauthorship in a study. _The Blazed Trail_ was written in a lumber campin midwinter. He got up at four o'clock, wrote until eight, then put onhis snowshoes and went out for a day's work. When the story was finishedhe gave it to the foreman of the camp to read. The man began it aftersupper, and when White got up next morning at four, he found him stillreading, so he felt that the book would succeed. 

Another year he made a trip to the Hudson Bay country, and on his returnwrote _Conjurer's House_. This was dramatized by George Broadhurst, andwas very successful on the stage. With Thomas Fogarty, the artist, hemade a long canoe trip, and the resulting book, _The Forest_, wasillustrated by Mr. Fogarty. A camping trip in the Sierra Mountains ofCalifornia was followed by the writing of _The Mountains_. His nextbook, _The Mystery_, was written jointly by Mr. White and Samuel HopkinsAdams. When it was finished they not only divided the proceeds butdivided the characters for future stories, White taking Handy Solomon, whom he used again in _Arizona Nights_, and Darrow, who appeared in _TheSign at Six_. 

Then without warning, Mr. White went to Africa. His explanation wassimple:

 I went because I wanted to. About once in so often the wheels get rusty and I have to get up and do something real or else blow up. Africa seemed to me a pretty real thing. Let me add that I did not go for material. I never go anywhere for material; if I did I should not get it. That attitude of mine would give me merely externals, which are not worth writing about. I go places merely because for one reason or another they attract me. Then if it happens that I get close enough to the life, I may later find that I have something to write about. A man rarely writes anything convincing unless he has lived the life; not with his critical faculty alert, but whole-heartedly and because, for the time being, it is his life. 

Naturally he found that he had something to write about on his return. _The Land of Footprints_, _African Camp Fires_, _Simba_, and _TheLeopard Woman_ were books that grew out of his African trip. Mr. Whitenext planned to write a series of three novels dealing with the romantichistory of the state of California. The first of these books, _Gold_, describes the mad rush of the Forty-Niners on the first discovery ofgold in California. _The Gray Dawn_, the second of the series, tells ofthe days of the Vigilantes, when the wild life of the mining campsslowly settled down to law and order. The coming of the World War was afresh challenge to his adventurous spirit, and he saw service in Franceas a major in the U. S. Field Artillery. 

From this sketch it is apparent that Mr. White's books have all grownout of his experience, in the sense that the background is one that hehas known. This explains the strong feeling of reality that weexperience as we read his stories. 

NEW ENGLAND GRANITE

_From the day the Pilgrims landed on a rockbound coast, the name NewEnglander has suggested certain traits of character. It connotes arestraint of feeling which more impulsive persons may mistake forabsence of feeling; a reserve carried almost to the point of coldness; aquiet dignity which to a breezy Westerner seems like "stand-offishness. "But those who come to know New England people well, find that beneaththe flint is fire. Dorothy Canfield suggests the theme of her story inthe title--"Flint and Fire. "_

FLINT AND FIRE

BY

DOROTHY CANFIELD

My husband's cousin had come up from the city, slightly more fagged andsardonic than usual, and as he stretched himself out in the bigporch-chair he was even more caustic than was his wont about thebareness and emotional sterility of the lives of our country people. 

"Perhaps they had, a couple of centuries ago, when the Puritanhallucination was still strong, a certain fierce savor of religiousintolerance; but now that that has died out, and no material prosperityhas come to let them share in the larger life of their century, there isa flatness, a mean absence of warmth or color, a deadness to allemotions but the pettiest sorts----"

I pushed the pitcher nearer him, clinking the ice invitingly, anddirected his attention to our iris-bed as a more cheerful object ofcontemplation than the degeneracy of the inhabitants of Vermont. Theflowers burned on their tall stalks like yellow tongues of flame. Thestrong, sword-like green leaves thrust themselves boldly up into thespring air like a challenge. The plants vibrated with vigorous life. 

In the field beyond them, as vigorous as they, strode Adoniram Purdonbehind his team, the reins tied together behind his muscular neck, hishands grasping the plow with the masterful sureness of the successfulpractitioner of an art. The hot, sweet spring sunshine shone down on'Niram's head with its thick crest of brown hair, the ineffable odor ofnewly turned earth steamed up about him like incense, the mountainstream beyond him leaped and shouted. His powerful body answered everycall made on it with the precision of a splendid machine. But there wasno elation in the grimly set face as 'Niram wrenched the plow around abig stone, or as, in a more favorable furrow, the gleaming share spedsteadily along before the plowman, turning over a long, unbroken brownribbon of earth. 

My cousin-in-law waved a nervous hand toward the sternly silent figureas it stepped doggedly behind the straining team, the head bent forward, the eyes fixed on the horses' heels. 

"There!" he said. "There is an example of what I mean. Is there anotherrace on earth which could produce a man in such a situation who wouldnot on such a day sing, or whistle, or at least hold up his head andlook at all the earthly glories about him?"

I was silent, but not for lack of material for speech. 'Niram's reasonsfor austere self-control were not such as I cared to discuss with a manof my cousin's mental attitude. As we sat looking at him the noonwhistle from the village blew and the wise old horses stopped in themiddle of a furrow. 'Niram unharnessed them, led them to the shade of atree, and put on their nose-bags. Then he turned and came toward thehouse. 

"Don't I seem to remember, " murmured my cousin under his breath, "that, even though he is a New-Englander, he has been known to make up errandsto your kitchen to see your pretty Ev'leen Ann?"

I looked at him hard; but he was only gazing down, rather cross-eyed, onhis grizzled mustache, with an obvious petulant interest in the increaseof white hairs in it. Evidently his had been but a chance shot. 'Niramstepped up on the grass at the edge of the porch. He was so tall that heovertopped the railing easily, and, reaching a long arm over to where Isat, he handed me a small package done up in yellowish tissue-paper. Without hat-raisings, or good-mornings or any other of the greetingsusual in a more effusive civilization, he explained briefly:

"My stepmother wanted I should give you this. She said to thank you forthe grape-juice. " As he spoke he looked at me gravely out of deep-setblue eyes, and when he had delivered his message he held his peace. 

I expressed myself with the babbling volubility of one whose mannershave been corrupted by occasional sojourns in the city. "Oh, 'Niram!" Icried protestingly, as I opened the package and took out an exquisitelywrought old-fashioned collar. "Oh, 'Niram! How _could_ your stepmothergive such a thing away? Why, it must be one of her precious old relics. I don't _want_ her to give me something every time I do some littlething for her. Can't a neighbor send her in a few bottles of grape-juicewithout her thinking she must pay it back somehow? It's not kind of her. She has never yet let me do the least thing for her without repaying mewith something that is worth ever so much more than my triflingservices. "

When I had finished my prattling, 'Niram repeated, with an accent offinality, "She wanted I should give it to you. "

The older man stirred in his chair. Without looking at him I knew thathis gaze on the young rustic was quizzical and that he was recording onthe tablets of his merciless memory the ungraceful abruptness of theother's action and manner. 

"How is your stepmother feeling to-day, 'Niram?" I asked. 

"Worse. "

'Niram came to a full stop with the word. My cousin covered hissatirical mouth with his hand. 

"Can't the doctor do anything to relieve her?" I asked. 

'Niram moved at last from his Indian-like immobility. He looked up underthe brim of his felt hat at the sky-line of the mountain, shimmeringiridescent above us. "He says maybe 'lectricity would help her some. I'mgoin' to git her the batteries and things soon's I git the rubberbandages paid for. "

There was a long silence. My cousin stood up, yawning, and saunteredaway toward the door. "Shall I send Ev'leen Ann out to get the pitcherand glasses?" he asked in an accent which he evidently thought veryhumorously significant. 

The strong face under the felt hat turned white, the jaw muscles sethard, but for all this show of strength there was an instant when theman's eyes looked out with the sick, helpless revelation of pain theymight have had when 'Niram was a little boy of ten, a third of hispresent age, and less than half his present stature. Occasionally it ishorrifying to see how a chance shot rings the bell. 

"No, no! Never mind!" I said hastily. "I'll take the tray in when I go. "

Without salutation or farewell 'Niram Purdon turned and went back to hiswork. 

The porch was an enchanted place, walled around with starlit darkness, visited by wisps of breezes shaking down from their wings the breath oflilac and syringa, flowering wild grapes, and plowed fields. Down at thefoot of our sloping lawn the little river, still swollen by the meltedsnow from the mountains, plunged between its stony banks and shouted itsbrave song to the stars. 

We three middle-aged people--Paul, his cousin, and I--had disposed ouruncomely, useful, middle-aged bodies in the big wicker chairs and leftthem there while our young souls wandered abroad in the sweet, darkglory of the night. At least Paul and I were doing this, as we sat, handin hand, thinking of a May night twenty years before. One never knowswhat Horace is thinking of, but apparently he was not in his usualcaptious vein, for after a long pause he remarked, "It is a night almostindecorously inviting to the making of love. "

My answer seemed grotesquely out of key with this, but its sequence wasclear in my mind. I got up, saying: "Oh, that reminds me--I must go andsee Ev'leen Ann. I'd forgotten to plan to-morrow's dinner. "

"Oh, everlastingly Ev'leen Ann!" mocked Horace from his corner. "Can'tyou think of anything but Ev'leen Ann and her affairs?"

I felt my way through the darkness of the house, toward the kitchen, both doors of which were tightly closed. When I stepped into the hot, close room, smelling of food and fire, I saw Ev'leen Ann sitting on thestraight kitchen chair, the yellow light of the bracket-lamp bearingdown on her heavy braids and bringing out the exquisitely subtlemodeling of her smooth young face. Her hands were folded in her lap. Shewas staring at the blank wall, and the expression of her eyes sostartled and shocked me that I stopped short and would have retreated ifit had not been too late. She had seen me, roused herself, and saidquietly, as though continuing a conversation interrupted the momentbefore:

"I had been thinking that there was enough left of the roast to makehash-balls for dinner"--"hash-balls" is Ev'leen Ann's decent Anglo-Saxonname for croquettes--"and maybe you'd like a rhubarb pie. "

I knew well enough she had been thinking of no such thing, but I couldas easily have slapped a reigning sovereign on the back as broken in onthe regal reserve of Ev'leen Ann in her clean gingham. 

"Well, yes, Ev'leen Ann, " I answered in her own tone of reasonableconsideration of the matter; "that would be nice, and your pie-crust isso flaky that even Mr. Horace will have to be pleased. "

"Mr. Horace" is our title for the sardonic cousin whose carping ways arehalf a joke, and half a menace in our family. 

Ev'leen Ann could not manage the smile which should have greeted thissally. She looked down soberly at the white-pine top of the kitchentable and said, "I guess there is enough sparrow-grass up in the gardenfor a mess, too, if you'd like that. "

"That would taste very good, " I agreed, my heart aching for her. 

"And creamed potatoes, " she finished bravely, thrusting my unspokenpity from her. 

"You know I like creamed potatoes better than any other kind, " Iconcurred. 

There was a silence. It seemed inhuman to go and leave the strickenyoung thing to fight her trouble alone in the ugly prison, herwork-place, though I thought I could guess why Ev'leen Ann had shut thedoors so tightly. I hung near her, searching my head for something tosay, but she helped me by no casual remark. 'Niram is not the only oneof our people who possesses to the full the supreme gift of silence. Finally I mentioned the report of a case of measles in the village, andEv'leen Ann responded in kind with the news that her Aunt Emma hadbought a potato-planter. Ev'leen Ann is an orphan, brought up by awell-to-do spinster aunt, who is strong-minded and runs her own farm. After a time we glided by way of similar transitions to the mention ofhis name. 

"'Niram Purdon tells me his stepmother is no better, " I said. "Isn't ittoo bad?" I thought it well for Ev'leen Ann to be dragged out of herblack cave of silence once in a while, even if it could be done only byforce. As she made no answer, I went on. "Everybody who knows 'Niramthinks it splendid of him to do so much for his stepmother. "

Ev'leen Ann responded with a detached air, as though speaking of amatter in China: "Well, it ain't any more than what he should. She wasawful good to him when he was little and his father got so sick. I guess'Niram wouldn't ha' had much to eat if she hadn't ha' gone out sewing toearn it for him and Mr. Purdon. " She added firmly, after a moment'spause, "No, ma'am, I don't guess it's any more than what 'Niram hadought to do. "

"But it's very hard on a young man to feel that he's not able to marry, "I continued. Once in a great while we came so near the matter as this. Ev'leen Ann made no answer. Her face took on a pinched look ofsickness. She set her lips as though she would never speak again. But Iknew that a criticism of 'Niram would always rouse her, and said: "Andreally, I think 'Niram makes a great mistake to act as he does. A wifewould be a help to him. She could take care of Mrs. Purdon and keep thehouse. "

Ev'leen Ann rose to the bait, speaking quickly with some heat: "I guess'Niram knows what's right for him to do! He can't afford to marry whenhe can't even keep up with the doctor's bills and all. He keeps thehouse himself, nights and mornings, and Mrs. Purdon is awful handy abouttaking care of herself, for all she's bedridden. That's her way, youknow. She can't bear to have folks do for her. She'd die before she'dlet anybody do anything for her that she could anyways do for herself!"

I sighed acquiescingly. Mrs. Purdon's fierce independence was a rock onwhich every attempt at sympathy or help shattered itself to atoms. Thereseemed to be no other emotion left in her poor old work-worn shell of abody. As I looked at Ev'leen Ann it seemed rather a hatefulcharacteristic, and I remarked, "It seems to me it's asking a good dealof 'Niram to spoil his life in order that his stepmother can go onpretending she's independent. "

Ev'leen Ann explained hastily: "Oh, 'Niram doesn't tell her anythingabout--She doesn't know he would like to--he don't want she should beworried--and, anyhow, as 'tis, he can't earn enough to keep ahead of allthe doctors cost. "

"But the right kind of a wife--a good, competent girl--could help out byearning something, too. "

Ev'leen Ann looked at me forlornly, with no surprise. The idea wasevidently not new to her. "Yes, ma'am, she could. But 'Niram says heain't the kind of man to let his wife go out working. " Even while shedropped under the killing verdict of his pride she was loyal to hisstandards and uttered no complaint. She went on, "'Niram wants AuntEm'line to have things the way she wants 'em, as near as he can give'em to her--and it's right she should. "

"Aunt Emeline?" I repeated, surprised at her absence of mind. "You meanMrs. Purdon, don't you?"

Ev'leen Ann looked vexed at her slip, but she scorned to attempt anyconcealment. She explained dryly, with the shy, stiff embarrassment ourcountry people have in speaking of private affairs: "Well, she _is_ myAunt Em'line, Mrs. Purdon is, though I don't hardly ever call her that. You see, Aunt Emma brought me up, and she and Aunt Em'line don't haveanything to do with each other. They were twins, and when they weregirls they got edgeways over 'Niram's father, when 'Niram was a baby andhis father was a young widower and come courting. Then Aunt Em'linemarried him, and Aunt Emma never spoke to her afterward. "

Occasionally, in walking unsuspectingly along one of our leafy lanes, some such fiery geyser of ancient heat uprears itself in a boilingcolumn. I never get used to it, and started back now. 

"Why, I never heard of that before, and I've known your Aunt Emma andMrs. Purdon for years!"

"Well, they're pretty old now, " said Ev'leen Ann listlessly, with thenatural indifference of self-centered youth to the bygone tragedies ofthe preceding generation. "It happened quite some time ago. And both ofthem were so touchy, if anybody seemed to speak about it, that folks gotin the way of letting it alone. First Aunt Emma wouldn't speak to hersister because she'd married the man she'd wanted, and then when AuntEmma made out so well farmin' and got so well off, why, then Mrs. Purdonwouldn't try to make up because she was so poor. That was after Mr. Purdon had had his stroke of paralysis and they'd lost their farm andshe'd taken to goin' out sewin'--not but what she was always perfectlysatisfied with her bargain. She always acted as though she'd rather haveher husband's old shirt stuffed with straw than any other man's wholebody. He was a real nice man, I guess, Mr. Purdon was. "

There I had it--the curt, unexpanded chronicle of two passionate lives. And there I had also the key to Mrs. Purdon's fury of independence. Itwas the only way in which she could defend her husband against thecharge, so damning to her world, of not having provided for his wife. Itwas the only monument she could rear to her husband's memory. And herhusband had been all there was in life for her!

I stood looking at her young kinswoman's face, noting the granite underthe velvet softness of its youth, and divining the flame underlying thegranite. I longed to break through her wall and to put my arms abouther, and on the impulse of the moment I cast aside the pretense ofcasualness in our talk. 

"Oh, my dear!" I said. "Are you and 'Niram always to go on like this?Can't anybody help you?"

Ev'leen Ann looked at me, her face suddenly old and gray. "No, ma'am; weain't going to go on this way. We've decided, 'Niram and I have, that itain't no use. We've decided that we'd better not go places together anymore or see each other. It's too--If 'Niram thinks we can't"--she flamedso that I knew she was burning from head to foot--"it's better for usnot----" She ended in a muffled voice, hiding her face in the crook ofher arm. 

Ah, yes; now I knew why Ev'leen Ann had shut out the passionate breathof the spring night!

I stood near her, a lump in my throat, but I divined the anguish of hershame at her involuntary self-revelation, and respected it. I dared dono more than to touch her shoulder gently. 

The door behind us rattled. Ev'leen Ann sprang up and turned her facetoward the wall. Paul's cousin came in, shuffling a little, blinking hiseyes in the light of the unshaded lamp, and looking very cross andtired. He glanced at us without comment as he went over to the sink. "Nobody offered me anything good to drink, " he complained, "so I came into get some water from the faucet for my nightcap. "

When he had drunk with ostentation from the tin dipper he went to theoutside door and flung it open. "Don't you people know how hot andsmelly it is in here?" he said, with his usual unceremonious abruptness. 

The night wind burst in, eddying, and puffed out the lamp with a breath. In an instant the room was filled with coolness and perfumes and therushing sound of the river. Out of the darkness came Ev'leen Ann's youngvoice. "It seems to me, " she said, as though speaking to herself, "thatI never heard the Mill Brook sound so loud as it has this spring. "

I woke up that night with the start one has at a sudden call. But therehad been no call. A profound silence spread itself through the sleepinghouse. Outdoors the wind had died down. Only the loud brawl of the riverbroke the stillness under the stars. But all through this silence andthis vibrant song there rang a soundless menace which brought me out ofbed and to my feet before I was awake. I heard Paul say, "What's thematter?" in a sleepy voice, and "Nothing, " I answered, reaching for mydressing gown and slippers. I listened for a moment, my head ringingwith all the frightened tales of the morbid vein of violence which runsthrough the character of our reticent people. There was still no sound. I went along the hall and up the stairs to Ev'leen Ann's room, and Iopened the door without knocking. The room was empty. 

Then how I ran! Calling loudly for Paul to join me, I ran down the twoflights of stairs, out of the open door, and along the hedged path whichleads down to the little river. The starlight was clear. I could seeeverything as plainly as though in early dawn. I saw the river, and Isaw--Ev'leen Ann. 

There was a dreadful moment of horror, which I shall never remembervery clearly, and then Ev'leen Ann and I--both very wet--stood on thebank, shuddering in each other's arms. 

Into our hysteria there dropped, like a pungent caustic, the arid voiceof Horace, remarking, "Well, are you two people crazy, or are youwalking in your sleep?"

I could feel Ev'leen Ann stiffen in my arms, and I fairly stepped backfrom her in astonished admiration as I heard her snatch at the strawthus offered, and still shuddering horribly from head to foot, forceherself to say quite connectedly: "Why--yes--of course--I've alwaysheard about my grandfather Parkman's walking in his sleep. Folks _said_'twould come out in the family some time. "

Paul was close behind Horace--I wondered a little at his not beingfirst--and with many astonished and inane ejaculations, such as peoplealways make on startling occasions, we made our way back into the houseto hot blankets and toddies. But I slept no more that night. 

Some time after dawn, however, I did fall into a troubledunconsciousness full of bad dreams, and only woke when the sun was quitehigh. I opened my eyes to see Ev'leen Ann about to close the door. 

"Oh, did I wake you up?" she said. "I didn't mean to. That little Harrisboy is here with a letter for you. "

She spoke with a slightly defiant tone of self-possession. I tried toplay up to her interpretation of her rôle. 

"The little Harris boy?" I said, sitting up in bed. "What in the worldis he bringing me a letter for?"

Ev'leen Ann, with her usual clear perception of the superfluous inconversation, vouchsafed no opinion on a matter where she had noinformation, but went downstairs and brought back the note. It was offour lines, and--surprisingly enough--from old Mrs. Purdon, who asked meabruptly if I would have my husband take me to see her. She specified, and underlined the specification, that I was to come "right off, and inthe automobile. " Wondering extremely at this mysterious bidding, Isought out Paul, who obediently cranked up our small car and carried meoff. There was no sign of Horace about the house, but some distance onthe other side of the village we saw his tall, stooping figure swingingalong the road. He carried a cane and was characteristically occupied inviolently switching off the heads from the wayside weeds as he walked. He refused our offer to take him in, alleging that he was out forexercise and to reduce his flesh--an ancient jibe at his bony framewhich made him for an instant show a leathery smile. 

There was, of course, no one at Mrs. Purdon's to let us into the tiny, three-roomed house, since the bedridden invalid spent her days therealone while 'Niram worked his team on other people's fields. Not knowingwhat we might find, Paul stayed outside in the car, while I steppedinside in answer to Mrs. Purdon's "Come _in_, why don't you!" whichsounded quite as dry as usual. But when I saw her I knew that thingswere not as usual. 

She lay flat on her back, the little emaciated wisp of humanity, hardlyraising the piecework quilt enough to make the bed seem occupied, and toaccount for the thin, worn old face on the pillow. But as I entered theroom her eyes seized on mine, and I was aware of nothing but them andsome fury of determination behind them. With a fierce heat of impatienceat my first natural but quickly repressed exclamation of surprise sheexplained briefly that she wanted Paul to lift her into the automobileand take her into the next township to the Hulett farm. "I'm so shrunkaway to nuthin', I know I can lay on the back seat if I crook myselfup, " she said, with a cool accent but a rather shaky voice. Seeming torealize that even her intense desire to strike the matter-of-fact notecould not take the place of any and all explanation of her extraordinaryrequest, she added, holding my eyes steady with her own: "Emma Hulett'smy twin sister. I guess it ain't so queer, my wanting to see her. "

I thought, of course, we were to be used as the medium for somestrange, sudden family reconciliation, and went out to ask Paul if hethought he could carry the old invalid to the car. He replied that, sofar as that went, he could carry so thin an old body ten times aroundthe town, but that he refused absolutely to take such a risk withoutauthorization from her doctor. I remembered the burning eyes ofresolution I had left inside, and sent him to present his objections toMrs. Purdon herself. 

In a few moments I saw him emerge from the house with the old woman inhis arms. He had evidently taken her up just as she lay. The pieceworkquilt hung down in long folds, flashing its brilliant reds and greens inthe sunshine, which shone so strangely upon the pallid old countenance, facing the open sky for the first time in years. 

We drove in silence through the green and gold lyric of the spring day, an elderly company sadly out of key with the triumphant note of eternalyouth which rang through all the visible world. Mrs. Purdon looked atnothing, said nothing, seemed to be aware of nothing but the purpose inher heart, whatever that might be. Paul and I, taking a leaf from ourneighbors' book, held, with a courage like theirs, to their excellenthabit of saying nothing when there is nothing to say. We arrived at thefine old Hulett place without the exchange of a single word. 

"Now carry me in, " said Mrs. Purdon briefly, evidently hoarding herstrength. 

"Wouldn't I better go and see if Miss Hulett is at home?" I asked. 

Mrs. Purdon shook her head impatiently and turned her compelling eyes onmy husband. I went up the path before them to knock at the door, wondering what the people in the house would possibly be thinking of us. There was no answer to my knock. "Open the door and go in, " commandedMrs. Purdon from out her quilt. 

There was no one in the spacious, white-paneled hall, and no sound inall the big, many-roomed house. 

"Emma's out feeding the hens, " conjectured Mrs. Purdon, not, I fancied, without a faint hint of relief in her voice. "Now carry me up-stairs tothe first room on the right. "

Half hidden by his burden, Paul rolled wildly inquiring eyes at me; buthe obediently staggered up the broad old staircase, and waiting till Ihad opened the first door to the right, stepped into the big bedroom. 

"Put me down on the bed, and open them shutters, " Mrs. Purdon commanded. 

She still marshaled her forces with no lack of decision, but with afainting voice which made me run over to her quickly as Paul laid herdown on the four-poster. Her eyes were still indomitable, but her mouthhung open slackly and her color was startling. "Oh, Paul, quick! quick!Haven't you your flask with you?"

Mrs. Purdon informed me in a barely audible whisper, "In the cornercupboard at the head of the stairs, " and I flew down the hallway. Ireturned with a bottle, evidently of great age. There was only a littlebrandy in the bottom, but it whipped up a faint color into the sickwoman's lips. 

As I was bending over her and Paul was thrusting open the shutters, letting in a flood of sunshine and flecky leaf-shadows, a firm, rapidstep came down the hall, and a vigorous woman, with a tanned face and aclean, faded gingham dress, stopped short in the doorway with anexpression of stupefaction. 

Mrs. Purdon put me on one side, and although she was physicallyincapable of moving her body by a hair's breadth, she gave the effect ofhaving risen to meet the newcomer. "Well, Emma, here I am, " she said ina queer voice, with involuntary quavers in it. As she went on she had itmore under control, although in the course of her extraordinarilysuccinct speech it broke and failed her occasionally. When it did, shedrew in her breath with an audible, painful effort, struggling forwardsteadily in what she had to say. "You see, Emma, it's this way: My'Niram and your Ev'leen Ann have been keeping company--ever since theywent to school together--you know that 's well as I do, for all we leton we didn't, only I didn't know till just now how hard they took it. They can't get married because 'Niram can't keep even, let alone getahead any, because I cost so much bein' sick, and the doctor says I maylive for years this way, same's Aunt Hettie did. An' 'Niram isthirty-one, an' Ev'leen Ann is twenty-eight, an' they've had 'bout'smuch waitin' as is good for folks that set such store by each other. I've thought of every way out of it--and there ain't any. The Lord knowsI don't enjoy livin' any, not so's to notice the enjoyment, and I'dthought of cutting my throat like Uncle Lish, but that'd make 'Niram andEv'leen Ann feel so--to think why I'd done it; they'd never take thecomfort they'd ought in bein' married; so that won't do. There's onlyone thing to do. I guess you'll have to take care of me till the Lordcalls me. Maybe I won't last so long as the doctor thinks. "

When she finished, I felt my ears ringing in the silence. She had walkedto the sacrificial altar with so steady a step, and laid upon it herprecious all with so gallant a front of quiet resolution, that for aninstant I failed to take in the sublimity of her self-immolation. Mrs. Purdon asking for charity! And asking the one woman who had most reasonto refuse it to her. 

Paul looked at me miserably, the craven desire to escape a scene writtenall over him. "Wouldn't we better be going, Mrs. Purdon?" I saiduneasily. I had not ventured to look at the woman in the doorway. 

Mrs. Purdon motioned me to remain, with an imperious gesture whosefierceness showed the tumult underlying her brave front. "No; I want youshould stay. I want you should hear what I say, so's you can tell folks, if you have to. Now, look here, Emma, " she went on to the other, stillobstinately silent; "you must look at it the way 'tis. We're neither ofus any good to anybody, the way we are--and I'm dreadfully in the wayof the only two folks we care a pin about--either of us. You've gotplenty to do with, and nothing to spend it on. I can't get myself out oftheir way by dying without going against what's Scripture and proper, but----" Her steely calm broke. She burst out in a screaming, hystericalvoice: "You've just _got_ to, Emma Hulett! You've just _got_ to! If youdon't I won't never go back to 'Niram's house! I'll lie in the ditch bythe roadside till the poor-master comes to get me--and I'll telleverybody that it's because my own twin sister, with a house and a farmand money in the bank, turned me out to starve--" A fearful spasm cuther short. She lay twisted and limp, the whites of her eyes showingbetween the lids. 

"Good God, she's gone!" cried Paul, running to the bed. 

I was aware that the woman in the doorway had relaxed her frozenimmobility and was between Paul and me as we rubbed the thin, icy handsand forced brandy between the placid lips. We all three thought her deador dying, and labored over her with the frightened thankfulness for oneanother's living presence which always marks that dreadful moment. Buteven as we fanned and rubbed, and cried out to one another to open thewindows and to bring water, the blue lips moved to a ghostly whisper:"Em, listen----" The old woman went back to the nickname of their commonyouth. "Em--your Ev'leen Ann--tried to drown herself--in the Mill Brooklast night.... That's what decided me--to----" And then we were plungedinto another desperate struggle with Death for the possession of thebattered old habitation of the dauntless soul before us. 

"Isn't there any hot water in the house?" cried Paul, and "Yes, yes; atea-kettle on the stove!" answered the woman who labored with us. Paul, divining that she meant the kitchen, fled down-stairs. I stole a look atEmma Hulett's face as she bent over the sister she had not seen inthirty years, and I knew that Mrs. Purdon's battle was won. It evenseemed that she had won another skirmish in her never-ending war withdeath, for a little warmth began to come back into her hands. 

When Paul returned with the tea-kettle, and a hot-water bottle had beenfilled, the owner of the house straightened herself, assumed herrightful position as mistress of the situation, and began to issuecommands. "You git right in the automobile, and go git the doctor, " shetold Paul. "That'll be the quickest. She's better now, and your wife andI can keep her goin' till the doctor gits here. "

As Paul left the room she snatched something white from a bureau-drawer, stripped the worn, patched old cotton nightgown from the skeleton-likebody, and, handling the invalid with a strong, sure touch, slipped on asoft, woolly outing-flannel wrapper with a curious trimming of zigzagbraid down the front. Mrs. Purdon opened her eyes very slightly, butshut them again at her sister's quick command, "You lay still, Em'line, and drink some of this brandy. " She obeyed without comment, but after apause she opened her eyes again and looked down at the new garment whichclad her. She had that moment turned back from the door of death, buther first breath was used to set the scene for a return to a decentdecorum. 

"You're still a great hand for rick-rack work, Em, I see, " she murmuredin a faint whisper. "Do you remember how surprised Aunt Su was when youmade up a pattern?"

"Well, I hadn't thought of it for quite some time, " returned MissHulett, in exactly the same tone of everyday remark. As she spoke sheslipped her arm under the other's head and poked the pillow to a morecomfortable shape. "Now you lay perfectly still, " she commanded in thehectoring tone of the born nurse; "I'm goin' to run down and make you upa good hot cup of sassafras tea. "

I followed her down into the kitchen and was met by the same refusal tobe melodramatic which I had encountered in Ev'leen Ann. I was mostanxious to know what version of my extraordinary morning I was to giveout to the world, but hung silent, positively abashed by the coolcasualness of the other woman as she mixed her brew. Finally, "Shall Itell 'Niram--What shall I say to Ev'leen Ann? If anybody asks me----" Ibrought out with clumsy hesitation. 

At the realization that her reserve and family pride were wholly at themercy of any report I might choose to give, even my iron hostessfaltered. She stopped short in the middle of the floor, looked at mesilently, piteously, and found no word. 

I hastened to assure her that I would attempt no hateful picturesquenessof narration. "Suppose I just say that you were rather lonely here, nowthat Ev'leen Ann has left you, and that you thought it would be nice tohave your sister come to stay with you, so that 'Niram and Ev'leen Anncan be married?"

Emma Hulett breathed again. She walked toward the stairs with thesteaming cup in her hand. Over her shoulder she remarked, "Well, yes, ma'am; that would be as good a way to put it as any, I guess. "

'Niram and Ev'leen Ann were standing up to be married. They looked verystiff and self-conscious, and Ev'leen Ann was very pale. 'Niram's bighands, bent in the crook of a man who handles tools, hung down by hisnew black trousers. Ev'leen Ann's strong fingers stood out stiffly fromone another. They looked hard at the minister and repeated after him inlow and meaningless tones the solemn and touching words of the marriageservice. Back of them stood the wedding company, in freshly washed andironed white dresses, new straw hats, and black suits smelling ofcamphor. In the background among the other elders, stood Paul and Horaceand I--my husband and I hand in hand; Horace twiddling the black ribbonwhich holds his watch, and looking bored. Through the open windows intothe stuffiness of the best room came an echo of the deep organ note ofmidsummer. 

"Whom God hath joined together----" said the minister, and the epitomeof humanity which filled the room held its breath--the old with a wonderupon their life-scarred faces, the young half frightened to feel thestir of the great wings soaring so near them. 

Then it was all over. 'Niram and Ev'leen Ann were married, and the restof us were bustling about to serve the hot biscuit and coffee andchicken salad, and to dish up the ice-cream. Afterward there were nocitified refinements of cramming rice down the necks of the departingpair or tying placards to the carriage in which they went away. Some ofthe men went out to the barn and hitched up for 'Niram, and we all wentdown to the gate to see them drive off. They might have been going forone of their Sunday afternoon "buggy-rides" except for the wet eyes ofthe foolish women and girls who stood waving their hands in answer tothe flutter of Ev'leen Ann's handkerchief as the carriage went down thehill. 

We had nothing to say to one another after they left, and began soberlyto disperse to our respective vehicles. But as I was getting into ourcar a new thought suddenly struck me. 

"Why, " I cried, "I never thought of it before! However in the world didold Mrs. Purdon know about Ev'leen Ann--that night?"

Horace was pulling at the door, which was badly adjusted and shut hard. He closed it with a vicious slam "_I_ told her, " he said crossly. 

HOW "FLINT AND FIRE" STARTED AND GREW

BY

DOROTHY CANFIELD

I feel very dubious about the wisdom or usefulness of publishing thefollowing statement of how one of my stories came into existence. Thisis not on account of the obvious danger of seeming to have illusionsabout the value of my work, as though I imagined one of my stories wasinherently worth in itself a careful public analysis of its growth; thechance, remote as it might be, of usefulness to students, would outweighthis personal consideration. What is more important is the danger thatsome student may take the explanation as a recipe or rule for theconstruction of other stories, and I totally disbelieve in such rules orrecipes. 

As a rule, when a story is finished, and certainly always by the time itis published, I have no recollection of the various phases of itsdevelopment. In the case of "Flint and Fire", an old friend chanced toask me, shortly after the tale was completed, to write out for hisEnglish classes, the stages of the construction of a short story. I setthem down, hastily, formlessly, but just as they happened, and thisgives me a record which I could not reproduce for any other story I everwrote. These notes are here published on the chance that such a truthfulrecord of the growth of one short story, may have some generalsuggestiveness for students. 

No two of my stories are ever constructed in the same way, but broadlyviewed they all have exactly the same genesis, and I confess I cannotconceive of any creative fiction written from any other beginning ... That of a generally intensified emotional sensibility, such as everyhuman being experiences with more or less frequency. Everybody knowssuch occasional hours or days of freshened emotional responses whenevents that usually pass almost unnoticed, suddenly move you deeply, when a sunset lifts you to exaltation, when a squeaking door throws youinto a fit of exasperation, when a clear look of trust in a child's eyesmoves you to tears, or an injustice reported in the newspapers toflaming indignation, a good action to a sunny warm love of human nature, a discovered meanness in yourself or another, to despair. 

I have no idea whence this tide comes, or where it goes, but when itbegins to rise in my heart, I know that a story is hovering in theoffing. It does not always come safely to port. The daily routine ofordinary life kills off many a vagrant emotion. Or if daily humdrumoccupation does not stifle it, perhaps this saturated solution offeeling does not happen to crystallize about any concrete fact, episode, word or phrase. In my own case, it is far more likely to seize on someslight trifle, the shade of expression on somebody's face, or the toneof somebody's voice, than to accept a more complete, ready-made episode. Especially this emotion refuses to crystallize about, or to haveanything to do with those narrations of our actual life, offered byfriends who are sure that such-and-such a happening is so strange orinteresting that "it ought to go in a story. "

The beginning of a story is then for me in more than usual sensitivenessto emotion. If this encounters the right focus (and heaven only knowswhy it is the "right" one) I get simultaneously a strong thrill ofintense feeling, and an intense desire to pass it on to other people. This emotion may be any one of the infinitely varied ones which lifeaffords, laughter, sorrow, indignation, gayety, admiration, scorn, pleasure. I recognize it for the "right" one when it brings with it anirresistible impulse to try to make other people feel it. And I knowthat when it comes, the story is begun. At this point, the story beginsto be more or less under my conscious control, and it is here that thework of construction begins. 

"Flint and Fire" thus hovered vaguely in a shimmer of general emotionaltensity, and thus abruptly crystallized itself about a chance phrase andthe cadence of the voice which pronounced it. For several days I hadbeen almost painfully alive to the beauty of an especially lovelyspring, always so lovely after the long winter in the mountains. Oneevening, going on a very prosaic errand to a farm-house of our region, Iwalked along a narrow path through dark pines, beside a brook swollenwith melting snow, and found the old man I came to see, sitting silentand alone before his blackened small old house. I did my errand, andthen not to offend against our country standards of sociability, sat forhalf an hour beside him. 

The old man had been for some years desperately unhappy about a tragicand permanent element in his life. I had known this, every one knew it. But that evening, played upon as I had been by the stars, the darknessof the pines and the shouting voice of the brook, I suddenly stoppedmerely knowing it, and felt it. It seemed to me that his misery emanatedfrom him like a soundless wail of anguish. We talked very little, oddsand ends of neighborhood gossip, until the old man, shifting hisposition, drew a long breath and said, "Seems to me I never heard thebrook sound so loud as it has this spring. " There came instantly to mymind the recollection that his grandfather had drowned himself in thatbrook, and I sat silent, shaken by that thought and by the sound of hisvoice. I have no words to attempt to reproduce his voice, or to try tomake you feel as I did, hot and cold with the awe of that glimpse into anaked human heart. I felt my own heart contract dreadfully with helplesssympathy ... And, I hope this is not as ugly as it sounds, I knew at thesame instant that I would try to get that pang of emotion into a storyand make other people feel it. 

That is all. That particular phase of the construction of the storycame and went between two heart-beats. 

I came home by the same path through the same pines along the samebrook, sinfully blind and deaf to the beauty that had so moved me anhour ago. I was too busy now to notice anything outside the rapidactivity going on inside my head. My mind was working with a swiftnessand a coolness which I am somewhat ashamed to mention, and my emotionswere calmed, relaxed, let down from the tension of the last few days andthe last few moments. They had found their way out to an attempt atself-expression and were at rest. I realize that this is not at allestimable. The old man was just as unhappy as he had been when I hadfelt my heart breaking with sympathy for him, but now he seemed very faraway. 

I was snatching up one possibility after another, considering it for amoment, casting it away and pouncing on another. First of all, the storymust be made as remote as possible from resembling the old man or histrouble, lest he or any one in the world might think he was intended, and be wounded. 

What is the opposite pole from an old man's tragedy? A lover's tragedy, of course. Yes, it must be separated lovers, young and passionate andbeautiful, because they would fit in with the back-ground of spring, andswollen shouting starlit brooks, and the yearly resurrection which wasso closely connected with that ache of emotion that they were a part ofit. 

Should the separation come from the weakness or faithlessness of one ofthe lovers? No, ah no, I wanted it without ugliness, pure beautifulsorrow, to fit that dark shadow of the pines ... The lovers must beseparated by outside forces. 

What outside forces? Lack of money? Family opposition? Both, perhaps. Iknew plenty of cases of both in the life of our valley. 

By this time I had come again to our own house and was swallowed in theusual thousand home-activities. But underneath all that, quite steadilymy mind continued to work on the story as a wasp in a barn keeps onsilently plastering up the cells of his nest in the midst of the noisyactivities of farm-life. I said to one of the children, "Yes, dear, wasn't it fun!" and to myself, "To be typical of our tradition-riddenvalley-people, the opposition ought to come from the dead hand of thepast. " I asked a caller, "One lump or two?" and thought as I poured thetea, "And if the character of that opposition could be made to indicatea fierce capacity for passionate feeling in the older generation, thatwould make it doubly useful in the story, not only as part of themachinery of the plot, but as indicating an inheritance of passionatefeeling in the younger generation, with whom the story is concerned. " Idozed off at night, and woke to find myself saying, "It could come fromthe jealousy of two sisters, now old women. "

But that meant that under ordinary circumstances the lovers would havebeen first cousins, and this might cause a subconscious wavering ofattention on the part of some readers ... Just as well to get that stoneout of the path! I darned a sock and thought out the relationship in thestory, and was rewarded with a revelation of the character of the sickold woman, 'Niram's step-mother. 

Upon this, came one of those veering lists of the ballast aboard whichare so disconcerting to the author. The story got out of hand. The oldwoman silent, indomitable, fed and deeply satisfied for all of her hardand grinding life by her love for the husband whom she had taken fromher sister, she stepped to the front of my stage, and from that momenton, dominated the action. I did not expect this, nor desire it, and Iwas very much afraid that the result would be a perilously dividedinterest which would spoil the unity of impression of the story. It nowoccurs to me that this unexpected shifting of values may have been theemergence of the element of tragic old age which had been the start ofthe story and which I had conscientiously tried to smother out of sight. At any rate, there she was, more touching, pathetic, striking, to myeyes with her life-time proof of the reality of her passion, than myuntried young lovers who up to that time had seemed to me, in the fullfatuous flush of invention as I was, as ill-starred, innocent andtouching lovers as anybody had ever seen. 

Alarmed about this double interest I went on with the weaving back andforth of the elements of the plot which now involved the attempt toarouse in the reader's heart as in mine a sympathy for the bed-riddenold Mrs. Purdon and a comprehension of her sacrifice. 

My daily routine continued as usual, gardening, telling stories, music, sewing, dusting, motoring, callers ... One of them, a self-consciouslysophisticated Europeanized American, not having of course any idea ofwhat was filling my inner life, rubbed me frightfully the wrong way bymaking a slighting condescending allusion to what he called the mean, emotional poverty of our inarticulate mountain people. I flew into asilent rage at him, though scorning to discuss with him a matter I felthim incapable of understanding, and the character of Cousin Horace wentinto the story. He was for the first day or two, a very poor cheapelement, quite unreal, unrealized, a mere man of straw to be knockedover by the personages of the tale. Then I took myself to task, toldmyself that I was spoiling a story merely to revenge myself on a man Icared nothing about, and that I must either take Cousin Horace out ormake him human. One day, working in the garden, I laughed out suddenly, delighted with the whimsical idea of making him, almost in spite ofhimself, the _deus ex machina_ of my little drama, quite soft andsympathetic under his shell of would-be worldly disillusion, asoccasionally happens to elderly bachelors. 

At this point the character of 'Niram's long-dead father came to lifeand tried to push his way into the story, a delightful, gentle, uprightman, with charm and a sense of humor, such as none of the rest of mystark characters possessed. I felt that he was necessary to explain thefierceness of the sisters' rivalry for him. I planned one or two ways toget him in, in retrospect--and liked one of the scenes better thananything that finally was left in the story. Finally, veryheavy-hearted, I put him out of the story, for the merely materialreason that there was no room for him. As usual with my story-making, this plot was sprouting out in a dozen places, expanding, opening up, till I perceived that I had enough material for a novel. For a day or soI hung undecided. Would it perhaps be better to make it a novel andreally tell about those characters all I knew and guessed? But again aconsideration that has nothing to do with artistic form, settled thematter. I saw no earthly possibility of getting time enough to write anovel. So I left Mr. Purdon out, and began to think of ways to compressmy material, to make one detail do double work so that space might besaved. 

One detail of the mechanism remained to be arranged, and this ended bydeciding the whole form of the story, and the first-person character ofthe recital. This was the question of just how it would have beenmaterially possible for the bed-ridden old woman to break down thelife-long barrier between her and her sister, and how she could havereached her effectively and forced her hand. I could see no way tomanage this except by somehow transporting her bodily to the sister'shouse, so that she could not be put out on the road without publicscandal. This transportation must be managed by some character not inthe main action, as none of the persons involved would have been willingto help her to this. It looked like putting in another character, justfor that purpose, and of course he could not be put in without takingthe time to make him plausible, human, understandable ... And I had justleft out that charming widower for sheer lack of space. Well, why notmake it a first person story, and have the narrator be the one who takesMrs. Purdon to her sister's? The narrator of the story never needs to beexplained, always seems sufficiently living and real by virtue of thesupremely human act of so often saying "I". 

Now the materials were ready, the characters fully alive in my mind andentirely visualized, even to the smoothly braided hair of Ev'leen Ann, the patch-work quilt of the old woman out-of-doors, and the rusticwedding at the end, all details which had recently chanced to draw myattention; I heard everything through the song of the swollen brook, oneof the main characters in the story, (although by this time in actualfact, June and lower water had come and the brook slid quiet andgleaming, between placid green banks) and I often found myself smilingfoolishly in pleasure over the buggy going down the hill, freighted sorichly with hearty human joy. 

The story was now ready to write. 

I drew a long breath of mingled anticipation and apprehension, somewhatas you do when you stand, breathing quickly, balanced on your skis, atthe top of a long white slope you are not sure you are clever enough tomanage. Sitting down at my desk one morning, I "pushed off" and with atingle of not altogether pleasurable excitement and alarm, felt myself"going. " I "went" almost as precipitately as skis go down a long whiteslope, scribbling as rapidly as my pencil could go, indicating wholewords with a dash and a jiggle, filling page after page with scrawls ... It seemed to me that I had been at work perhaps half an hour, whensomeone was calling me impatiently to lunch. I had been writing fourhours without stopping. My cheeks were flaming, my feet were cold, mylips parched. It was high time someone called me to lunch. 

The next morning, back at the desk, I looked over what I had written, conquered the usual sick qualms of discouragement at finding it soinfinitely flat and insipid compared to what I had wished to make it, and with a very clear idea of what remained to be done, plodded aheaddoggedly, and finished the first draught before noon. It was almosttwice too long. 

After this came a period of steady desk work, every morning, ofre-writing, compression, more compression, and the more or lessmechanical work of technical revision, what a member of my family calls"cutting out the 'whiches'". The first thing to do each morning was toread a part of it over aloud, sentence by sentence, to try to catchclumsy, ungraceful phrases, overweights at one end or the other, "ringing" them as you ring a dubious coin, clipping off too-trailingrelative clauses, "listening" hard. This work depends on what is knownin music as "ear", and in my case it cannot be kept up long at a time, because I find my attention flagging. When I begin to suspect that myear is dulling, I turn to other varieties of revision, of which thereare plenty to keep anybody busy; for instance revision to explain facts;in this category is the sentence just after the narrator suspectsEv'leen Ann has gone down to the brook, "my ears ringing with all thefrightening tales of the morbid vein of violence which runs through thecharacters of our reticent people. " It seemed too on re-reading thestory for the tenth or eleventh time, that for readers who do not knowour valley people, the girl's attempt at suicide might seem improbable. Some reference ought to be brought in, giving the facts that theirsorrow and despair is terrible in proportion to the nervous strain oftheir tradition of repression, and that suicide is by no means unknown. I tried bringing that fact in, as part of the conversation with CousinHorace, but it never fused with the rest there, "stayed on top of thepage" as bad sentences will do, never sank in, and always made thedisagreeable impression on me that a false intonation in an actor'svoice does. So it came out from there. I tried putting it in Ev'leenAnn's mouth, in a carefully arranged form, but it was so shockingly outof character there, that it was snatched out at once. There I hung overthe manuscript with that necessary fact in my hand and no place to layit down. Finally I perceived a possible opening for it, where it now isin the story, and squeezing it in there discontentedly left it, for Istill think it only inoffensively and not well placed. 

Then there is the traditional, obvious revision for suggestiveness, suchas the recurrent mention of the mountain brook at the beginning of eachof the first scenes; revision for ordinary sense, in the first draught Ihad honeysuckle among the scents on the darkened porch, whereashoneysuckle does not bloom in Vermont till late June; revision formovement to get the narrator rapidly from her bed to the brook; forsound, sense proportion, even grammar ... And always interwoven withthese mechanical revisions recurrent intense visualizations of thescenes. This is the mental trick which can be learned, I think, bypractice and effort. Personally, although I never used as material anyevents in my own intimate life, I can write nothing if I cannot achievethese very definite, very complete visualizations of the scenes; whichmeans that I can write nothing at all about places, people or phases oflife which I do not intimately know, down to the last detail. If my lifedepended on it, it does not seem to me I could possibly write a storyabout Siberian hunters or East-side factory hands without having livedlong among them. Now the story was what one calls "finished, " and I madea clear copy, picking my way with difficulty among the alterations, thescratched-out passages, and the cued-in paragraphs, the inserted pages, the re-arranged phrases. As I typed, the interest and pleasure in thestory lasted just through that process. It still seemed pretty good tome, the wedding still touched me, the whimsical ending still amused me. 

But on taking up the legible typed copy and beginning to glance rapidlyover it, I felt fall over me the black shadow of that intolerablereaction which is enough to make any author abjure his calling for ever. By the time I had reached the end, the full misery was there, theheart-sick, helpless consciousness of failure. What! I had had thepresumption to try to translate into words, and make others feel athrill of sacred living human feeling, that should not be touched saveby worthy hands. And what had I produced? A trivial, paltry, complicatedtale, with certain cheaply ingenious devices in it. I heard again theincommunicable note of profound emotion in the old man's voice, sufferedagain with his sufferings; and those little black marks on white paperlay dead, dead in my hands. What horrible people second-rate authorswere! They ought to be prohibited by law from sending out theircaricatures of life. I would never write again. All that effort, enoughto have achieved a master-piece it seemed at the time ... And this, _this_, for result!

From the subconscious depths of long experience came up the cynical, slightly contemptuous consolation, "You know this never lasts. Youalways throw this same fit, and get over it. "

So, suffering from really acute humiliation and unhappiness, I went outhastily to weed a flower-bed. 

And sure enough, the next morning, after a long night's sleep, I feltquite rested, calm, and blessedly matter-of-fact. "Flint and Fire"seemed already very far away and vague, and the question of whether itwas good or bad, not very important or interesting, like the chart ofyour temperature in a fever now gone by. 

DOROTHY CANFIELD

Dorothy Canfield grew up in an atmosphere of books and learning. Herfather, James H. Canfield, was president of Kansas University, atLawrence, and there Dorothy was born, Feb. 17, 1879. She attended thehigh school at Lawrence, and became friends with a young army officerwho was teaching at the near-by Army post, and who taught her to ridehorseback. In 1917 when the first American troops entered Paris, DorothyCanfield, who had gone to Paris to help in war work, again met this armyofficer, General John J. Pershing. 

But this is getting ahead of the story. Dr. Canfield was called fromKansas to become president of Ohio State University, and later to belibrarian at Columbia University, and so it happened that Dorothy tookher college course at Ohio State and her graduate work at Columbia. Shespecialized in Romance languages, and took her degree as Doctor ofPhilosophy in 1904. In connection with Professor Carpenter of Columbiashe wrote a text book on rhetoric. But books did not absorb quite all ofher time, for the next item in her biography is her marriage to John R. Fisher, who had been the captain of the Columbia football team. Theymade their home at Arlington, Vermont, with frequent visits to Europe. In 1911-1912 they spent the winter in Rome. Here they came to knowMadame Montessori, famous for developing a new system of trainingchildren. Dorothy Canfield spent many days at the "House of Childhood, "studying the methods of this gifted teacher. The result of this was abook, _A Montessori Mother_, in which the system was adapted to theneeds of American children. 

_The Squirrel Cage_, published in 1912, was a study of an unhappymarriage. The book was favorably received by the critics, but found onlya moderately wide public. A second novel, _The Bent Twig_, had collegelife as its setting; the chief character was the daughter of a professorin a Middle Western university. Meantime she had been publishing inmagazines a number of short stories dealing with various types of NewEngland country people, and in 1916 these were gathered into a volumewith the title _Hillsboro People_. This book met with a wide acceptance, not only in this country but in France, where, like her other books, itwas quickly translated and published. "Flint and Fire" is taken fromthis book. _The Real Motive_, another book of short stories, and_Understood Betsy_, a book for younger readers, were her nextpublications. 

Meantime the Great War had come, and its summons was heard in theirquiet mountain home. Mr. Fisher went to France with the Ambulance Corps;his wife as a war-relief worker. A letter from a friend thus describedher work:

 She has gone on doing a prodigious amount of work. First running, almost entirely alone, the work for soldiers blinded in battle, editing a magazine for them, running the presses, often with her own hands, getting books written for them; all the time looking out for refugees and personal cases that came under her attention: caring for children from the evacuated portions of France, organizing work for them, and establishing a Red Cross hospital for them. 

Out of the fullness of these experiences she wrote her next book, _HomeFires in France_, which at once took rank as one of the most notablepieces of literature inspired by the war. It is in the form of shortstories, but only the form is fiction: it is a perfectly truthfulportrayal of the French women and of some Americans who, far back of thetrenches, kept up the life of a nation when all its people were gone. Itreveals the soul of the French people. _The Day of Glory_, her latestbook, is a series of further impressions of the war in France. 

It is not often that an author takes us into his workshop and lets ussee just how his stories are written. The preceding account of DorothyCanfield's literary methods was written especially for this book. 

DUSKY AMERICANS

_Most stories of Negro life fall into one of two groups. There is thestory of the Civil War period, which pictures the "darky" on the oldplantation, devoted to "young Massa" or "old Miss, "--the Negro ofslavery. Then there are stories of recent times in which the Negro isused purely for comic effect, a sort of minstrel-show character. Neitherof these is the Negro of to-day. A truer picture is found in the storiesof Paul Laurence Dunbar. The following story is from his FOLKS FROMDIXIE. _

THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE

BY

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

"And this is Mt. Hope, " said the Rev. Howard Dokesbury to himself as hedescended, bag in hand, from the smoky, dingy coach, or part of a coach, which was assigned to his people, and stepped upon the rotten planks ofthe station platform. The car he had just left was not a palace, nor hadhis reception by his fellow-passengers or his intercourse with them beenof such cordial nature as to endear them to him. But he watched thechoky little engine with its three black cars wind out of sight with alook as regretful as if he were witnessing the departure of his dearestfriend. Then he turned his attention again to his surroundings, and asigh welled up from his heart. "And this is Mt. Hope, " he repeated. Anote in his voice indicated that he fully appreciated the spirit of keenirony in which the place had been named. 

The color scheme of the picture that met his eyes was in dingy blacksand grays. The building that held the ticket, telegraph, and traindespatchers' offices was a miserably old ramshackle affair, standingwell in the foreground of this scene of gloom and desolation. Itswindows were so coated with smoke and grime that they seemed to havebeen painted over in order to secure secrecy within. Here and there alazy cur lay drowsily snapping at the flies, and at the end of thestation, perched on boxes or leaning against the wall, making a livingpicture of equal laziness, stood a group of idle Negroes exchanging rudebadinage with their white counterparts across the street. 

After a while this bantering interchange would grow more keen andpersonal, a free-for-all friendly fight would follow, and the newspapercorrespondent in that section would write it up as a "race war. " Butthis had not happened yet that day. 

"This is Mt. Hope, " repeated the new-comer; "this is the field of mylabors. "

Rev. Howard Dokesbury, as may already have been inferred, was aNegro, --there could be no mistake about that. The deep dark brown of hisskin, the rich over-fullness of his lips, and the close curl of hisshort black hair were evidences that admitted of no argument. He was afinely proportioned, stalwart-looking man, with a general air ofself-possession and self-sufficiency in his manner. There was firmnessin the set of his lips. A reader of character would have said of him, "Here is a man of solid judgement, careful in deliberation, prompt inexecution, and decisive. "

It was the perception in him of these very qualities which had promptedthe authorities of the little college where he had taken his degree andreceived his theological training, to urge him to go among his people atthe South, and there to exert his powers for good where the field wasbroad and the laborers few. 

Born of Southern parents from whom he had learned many of thesuperstitions and traditions of the South, Howard Dokesbury himself hadnever before been below Mason and Dixon's line. But with a confidenceborn of youth and a consciousness of personal power, he had startedSouth with the idea that he knew the people with whom he had to deal, and was equipped with the proper weapons to cope with theirshortcomings. 

But as he looked around upon the scene which now met his eye, a doubtarose in his mind. He picked up his bag with a sigh, and approached aman who had been standing apart from the rest of the loungers andregarding him with indolent intentness. 

"Could you direct me to the house of Stephen Gray?" asked the minister. 

The interrogated took time to change his position from left foot toright and shift his quid, before he drawled forth, "I reckon you's denew Mefdis preachah, huh?"

"Yes, " replied Howard, in the most conciliatory tone he could command, "and I hope I find in you one of my flock. "

"No, suh, I's a Babtist myse'f. I wa'n't raised up no place erroun' Mt. Hope; I'm nachelly f'om way up in Adams County. Dey jes' sont me downhyeah to fin' you an' tek you up to Steve's. Steve, he's workin' to-dayan' couldn't come down. "

He laid particular stress upon the "to-day, " as if Steve's spell ofactivity were not an every-day occurrence. 

"Is it far from here?" asked Dokesbury. 

"'T ain't mo' 'n a mile an' a ha'f by de shawt cut. "

"Well, then, let's take the short cut, by all means, " said the preacher. 

They trudged along for a while in silence, and then the young man asked, "What do you men about here do mostly for a living?"

"Oh, well, we does odd jobs, we saws an' splits wood an' totes bundles, an' some of 'em raises gyahden, but mos' of us, we fishes. De fish bitesan' we ketches 'em. Sometimes we eats 'em an' sometimes we sells 'em; astring o' fish'll bring a peck o' co'n any time. "

"And is that all you do?"

"'Bout. "

"Why, I don't see how you live that way. "

"Oh, we lives all right, " answered the man; "we has plenty to eat an'drink, an' clothes to wear, an' some place to stay. I reckon folks ain'tgot much use fu' nuffin' mo'. "

Dokesbury sighed. Here indeed was virgin soil for his ministeriallabors. His spirits were not materially raised when, some time later, hecame in sight of the house which was to be his abode. To be sure, it wasbetter than most of the houses which he had seen in the Negro part ofMt. Hope; but even at that it was far from being good orcomfortable-looking. It was small and mean in appearance. The weatherboarding was broken, and in some places entirely fallen away, showingthe great unhewn logs beneath; while off the boards that remained thewhitewash had peeled in scrofulous spots. 

The minister's guide went up to the closed door, and rapped loudly witha heavy stick. 

"G' 'way f'om dah, an' quit you' foolin', " came in a large voice fromwithin. 

The guide grinned, and rapped again. There was a sound of shuffling feetand the pushing back of a chair, and then the same voice asking: "I betI'll mek you git away f'om dat do'. "

"Dat's A'nt Ca'line, " the guide said, and laughed. 

The door was flung back as quickly as its worn hinges and sagging bottomwould allow, and a large body surmounted by a face like a big round fullmoon presented itself in the opening. A broomstick showed itselfaggressively in one fat shiny hand. 

"It's you, Tom Scott, is it--you trif'nin'----" and then, catching sightof the stranger, her whole manner changed, and she dropped thebroomstick with an embarrassed "'Scuse me, suh. "

Tom chuckled all over as he said, "A'nt Ca'line, dis is yo' newpreachah. "

The big black face lighted up with a broad smile as the old womanextended her hand and enveloped that of the young minister's. 

"Come in, " she said. "I's mighty glad to see you--that no-'count Tomcome put' nigh mekin' me 'spose myse'f. " Then turning to Tom, sheexclaimed with good-natured severity, "An' you go 'long, you scoun'llyou!"

The preacher entered the cabin--it was hardly more--and seated himselfin the rush-bottomed chair which "A'nt Ca'line" had been industriouslypolishing with her apron. 

"An' now, Brothah----"

"Dokesbury, " supplemented the young man. 

"Brothah Dokesbury, I jes' want you to mek yo'se'f at home right erway. I know you ain't use to ouah ways down hyeah; but you jes' got to set inan' git ust to 'em. You mus'n' feel bad ef things don't go yo' way f'omde ve'y fust. Have you got a mammy?"

The question was very abrupt, and a lump suddenly jumped up inDokesbury's throat and pushed the water into his eyes. He did have amother away back there at home. She was all alone, and he was her heartand the hope of her life. 

"Yes, " he said, "I've got a little mother up there in Ohio. "

"Well, I's gwine to be yo' mothah down hyeah; dat is, ef I ain't toorough an' common fu' you. "

"Hush!" exclaimed the preacher, and he got up and took the old lady'shand in both of his own. "You shall be my mother down here; you shallhelp me, as you have done to-day. I feel better already. "

"I knowed you would, " and the old face beamed on the young one. "An' nowjes' go out de do' dah an' wash yo' face. Dey's a pan an' soap an' watahright dah, an' hyeah's a towel; den you kin go right into yo' room, fu'I knows you want to be erlone fu' a while. I'll fix yo' suppah while yourests. "

He did as he was bidden. On a rough bench outside the door, he found abasin and a bucket of water with a tin dipper in it. To one side, in abroken saucer, lay a piece of coarse soap. The facilities for copiousablutions were not abundant, but one thing the minister noted withpleasure: the towel, which was rough and hurt his skin, was, nevertheless, scrupulously clean. He went to his room feeling fresherand better, and although he found the place little and dark and warm, ittoo was clean, and a sense of its homeness began to take possession ofhim. 

The room was off the main living-room into which he had been firstushered. It had one small window that opened out on a fairly neat yard. A table with a chair before it stood beside the window, and across theroom--if the three feet of space which intervened could be called"across"--stood the little bed with its dark calico quilt and whitepillows. There was no carpet on the floor, and the absence of awashstand indicated very plainly that the occupant was expected to washoutside. The young minister knelt for a few minutes beside the bed, andthen rising cast himself into the chair to rest. 

It was possibly half an hour later when his partial nap was broken inupon by the sound of a gruff voice from without saying, "He's hyeah, ishe--oomph! Well, what's he ac' lak? Want us to git down on ouah kneesan' crawl to him? If he do, I reckon he'll fin' dat Mt. Hope ain't deplace fo' him. "

The minister did not hear the answer, which was in a low voice and came, he conjectured, from Aunt "Ca'line"; but the gruff voice subsided, andthere was the sound of footsteps going out of the room. A tap came onthe preacher's door, and he opened it to the old woman. She smiledreassuringly. 

"Dat' uz my ol' man, " she said. "I sont him out to git some wood, so'sI'd have time to post you. Don't you mind him; he's lots mo' ba'k danbite. He's one o' dese little yaller men, an' you know dey kin bepowahful contra'y when dey sets dey hai'd to it. But jes' you treat himnice an' don't let on, an' I'll be boun' you'll bring him erroun' inlittle er no time. "

The Rev. Mr. Dokesbury received this advice with some misgiving. Albeithe had assumed his pleasantest manner when, after his return to theliving-room, the little "yaller" man came through the door with hisbundle of wood. 

He responded cordially to Aunt Caroline's, "Dis is my husband, BrothahDokesbury, " and heartily shook his host's reluctant hand. 

"I hope I find you well, Brother Gray, " he said. 

"Moder't, jes' moder't, " was the answer. 

"Come to suppah now, bofe o' you, " said the old lady, and they all satdown to the evening meal of crisp bacon, well-fried potatoes, egg-pone, and coffee. 

The young man did his best to be agreeable, but it was ratherdiscouraging to receive only gruff monosyllabic rejoinders to his mostinteresting observations. But the cheery old wife came bravely to therescue, and the minister was continually floated into safety on the flowof her conversation. Now and then, as he talked, he could catch astealthy upflashing of Stephen Gray's eye, as suddenly lowered again, that told him that the old man was listening. But as an indication thatthey would get on together, the supper, taken as a whole, was not asuccess. The evening that followed proved hardly more fortunate. Aboutthe only remarks that could be elicited from the "little yaller man"were a reluctant "oomph" or "oomph-uh. "

It was just before going to bed that, after a period of reflection, AuntCaroline began slowly: "We got a son"--her husband immediately bristledup and his eyes flashed, but the old woman went on; "he named 'Lias, an'we thinks a heap o' 'Lias, we does; but--" the old man had subsided, buthe bristled up again at the word--"he ain't jes' whut we want him tobe. " Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak in defense of his son, but was silent in satisfaction at his wife's explanation: "'Lias ain'tbad; he jes' ca'less. Sometimes he stays at home, but right sma't o' detime he stays down at"--she looked at her husband and hesitated--"at decolo'ed s'loon. We don't lak dat. It ain't no fitten place fu' him. But'Lias ain't bad, he jes' ca'less, an' me an' de ol' man we 'membahs himin ouah pra'ahs, an' I jes' t'ought I'd ax you to 'membah him too, Brothah Dokesbury. "

The minister felt the old woman's pleading look and the husband'sintense gaze upon his face, and suddenly there came to him an intimatesympathy in their trouble and with it an unexpected strength. 

"There is no better time than now, " he said, "to take his case to theAlmighty Power; let us pray. "

Perhaps it was the same prayer he had prayed many times before; perhapsthe words of supplication and the plea for light and guidance were thesame; but somehow to the young man kneeling there amid those humblesurroundings, with the sorrow of these poor ignorant people weighingupon his heart, it seemed very different. It came more fervently fromhis lips, and the words had a deeper meaning. When he arose, there was awarmth at his heart just the like of which he had never beforeexperienced. 

Aunt Caroline blundered up from her knees, saying, as she wiped hereyes, "Blessed is dey dat mou'n, fu' dey shall be comfo'ted. " The oldman, as he turned to go to bed, shook the young man's hand warmly and insilence; but there was a moisture in the old eyes that told the ministerthat his plummet of prayer had sounded the depths. 

Alone in his own room Howard Dokesbury sat down to study the situationin which he had been placed. Had his thorough college traininganticipated specifically any such circumstance as this? After all, didhe know his own people? Was it possible that they could be so differentfrom what he had seen and known? He had always been such a loyal Negro, so proud of his honest brown; but had he been mistaken? Was he, afterall, different from the majority of the people with whom he was supposedto have all thoughts, feelings, and emotions in common?

These and other questions he asked himself without being able to arriveat any satisfactory conclusion. He did not go to sleep soon afterretiring, and the night brought many thoughts. The next day would beSaturday. The ordeal had already begun, --now there were twenty-fourhours between him and the supreme trial. What would be its outcome?There were moments when he felt, as every man, howsoever brave, mustfeel at times, that he would like to shift all his responsibilities andgo away from the place that seemed destined to tax his powers beyondtheir capability of endurance. What could he do for the inhabitants ofMt. Hope? What was required of him to do? Ever through his mind ran thatworld-old question: "Am I my brother's keeper?" He had never asked, "Arethese people my brothers?"

He was up early the next morning, and as soon as breakfast was done, hesat down to add a few touches to the sermon he had prepared as hisintroduction. It was not the first time that he had retouched it andpolished it up here and there. Indeed, he had taken some pride in it. But as he read it over that day, it did not sound to him as it hadsounded before. It appeared flat and without substance. After a while helaid it aside, telling himself that he was nervous and it was on thisaccount that he could not see matters as he did in his calmer moments. He told himself, too, that he must not again take up the offendingdiscourse until time to use it, lest the discovery of more imaginaryflaws should so weaken his confidence that he would not be able todeliver it with effect. 

In order better to keep his resolve, he put on his hat and went out fora walk through the streets of Mt. Hope. He did not find an encouragingprospect as he went along. The Negroes whom he met viewed him withill-favor, and the whites who passed looked on him with unconcealeddistrust and contempt. He began to feel lost, alone, and helpless. Thesqualor and shiftlessness which were plainly in evidence about thehouses which he saw filled him with disgust and a dreary hopelessness. 

He passed vacant lots which lay open and inviting children to healthfulplay; but instead of marbles or leap-frog or ball, he found little boysin ragged knickerbockers huddled together on the ground, "shootingcraps" with precocious avidity and quarreling over the pennies that madethe pitiful wagers. He heard glib profanity rolling from the lips ofchildren who should have been stumbling through baby catechisms; andhis heart ached for them. 

He would have turned and gone back to his room, but the sound of shouts, laughter, and the tum-tum of a musical instrument drew him on down thestreet. At the turn of a corner, the place from which the noise emanatedmet his eyes. It was a rude frame building, low and unpainted. The panesin its windows whose places had not been supplied by sheets of tin weredaubed a dingy red. Numerous kegs and bottles on the outside attestedthe nature of the place. The front door was open, but the interior wasconcealed by a gaudy curtain stretched across the entrance within. Overthe door was the inscription, in straggling characters, "Sander'sPlace;" and when he saw half-a-dozen Negroes enter, the minister knewinstantly that he now beheld the colored saloon which was thefrequenting-place of his hostess's son 'Lias; and he wondered, if, asthe mother said, her boy was not bad, how anything good could bepreserved in such a place of evil. 

The cries of boisterous laughter mingled with the strumming of the banjoand the shuffling of feet told him that they were engaged in one oftheir rude hoe-down dances. He had not passed a dozen paces beyond thedoor when the music was suddenly stopped, the sound of a quick blowfollowed, then ensued a scuffle, and a young fellow half ran, half fellthrough the open door. He was closely followed by a heavily builtruffian who was striking him as he ran. The young fellow was very muchthe weaker and slighter of the two, and was suffering great punishment. In an instant all the preacher's sense of justice was stung into suddenlife. Just as the brute was about to give his victim a blow that wouldhave sent him into the gutter, he felt his arm grasped in a detaininghold and heard a commanding voice, --"Stop!"

He turned with increased fury upon this meddler, but his other wrist wascaught and held in a vise-like grip. For a moment the two men lookedinto each other's eyes. Hot words rose to the young man's lips, but hechoked them back. Until this moment he had deplored the possession of aspirit so easily fired that it had been a test of his manhood to keepfrom "slugging" on the football field; now he was glad of it. He did notattempt to strike the man, but stood holding his arms and meeting thebrute glare with manly flashing eyes. Either the natural cowardice ofthe bully or something in his new opponent's face had quelled the bigfellow's spirit, and he said doggedly, "Lemme go. I wasn't a-go'n tokill him no-how, but ef I ketch him dancin' with my gal any mo', I----"He cast a glance full of malice at his victim, who stood on the pavementa few feet away, as much amazed as the dumfounded crowd which throngedthe door of "Sander's Place. " Loosing his hold, the preacher turned, and, putting his hand on the young fellow's shoulder, led him away. 

For a time they walked on in silence. Dokesbury had to calm the tempestin his breast before he could trust his voice. After a while he said:"That fellow was making it pretty hot for you, my young friend. What hadyou done to him?"

"Nothin', " replied the other. "I was jes' dancin' 'long an' not thinkin''bout him, when all of a sudden he hollered dat I had his gal an'commenced hittin' me. "

"He's a bully and a coward, or he would not have made use of hissuperior strength in that way. What's your name, friend?"

"'Lias Gray, " was the answer, which startled the minister intoexclaiming, --

"What! are you Aunt Caroline's son?"

"Yes, suh, I sho is; does you know my mothah?"

"Why, I'm stopping with her, and we were talking about you last night. My name is Dokesbury, and I am to take charge of the church here. "

"I thought mebbe you was a preachah, but I couldn't scarcely believe itafter I seen de way you held Sam an' looked at him. "

Dokesbury laughed, and his merriment seemed to make his companion feelbetter, for the sullen, abashed look left his face, and he laughed alittle himself as he said: "I wasn't a-pesterin' Sam, but I tell you hepestered me mighty. "

Dokesbury looked into the boy's face, --he was hardly more than aboy, --lit up as it was by a smile, and concluded that Aunt Caroline wasright. 'Lias might be "ca'less, " but he wasn't a bad boy. The face wastoo open and the eyes too honest for that. 'Lias wasn't bad; butenvironment does so much, and he would be if something were not done forhim. Here, then, was work for a pastor's hands. 

"You'll walk on home with me, 'Lias, won't you?"

"I reckon I mout ez well, " replied the boy. "I don't stay erroun' homeez much ez I oughter. "

"You'll be around more, of course, now that I am there. It will be somuch less lonesome for two young people than for one. Then, you can be agreat help to me, too. "

The preacher did not look down to see how wide his listener's eyes grewas he answered: "Oh, I ain't fittin' to be no he'p to you, suh. Fustthing, I ain't nevah got religion, an' then I ain't well larned enough. "

"Oh, there are a thousand other ways in which you can help, and I feelsure that you will. "

"Of co'se, I'll do de ve'y bes' I kin. "

"There is one thing I want you to do soon, as a favor to me. "

"I can't go to de mou'nah's bench, " cried the boy, in consternation. 

"And I don't want you to, " was the calm reply. 

Another look of wide-eyed astonishment took in the preacher's face. These were strange words from one of his guild. But without noticing thesurprise he had created, Dokesbury went on: "What I want is that youwill take me fishing as soon as you can. I never get tired of fishingand I am anxious to go here. Tom Scott says you fish a great deal abouthere. "

"Why, we kin go dis ve'y afternoon, " exclaimed 'Lias, in relief anddelight; "I's mighty fond o' fishin', myse'f. "

"All right; I'm in your hands from now on. "

'Lias drew his shoulders up, with an unconscious motion. The preachersaw it, and mentally rejoiced. He felt that the first thing the boybeside him needed was a consciousness of responsibility, and the liftedshoulders meant progress in that direction, a sort of physicalstraightening up to correspond with the moral one. 

On seeing her son walk in with the minister, Aunt "Ca'line's" delightwas boundless. "La! Brothah Dokesbury, " she exclaimed, "wha'd you fin'dat scamp?"

"Oh, down the street here, " the young man replied lightly. "I got holdof his name and made myself acquainted, so he came home to go fishingwith me. "

"'Lias is pow'ful fon' o' fishin', hisse'f. I 'low he kin show you somemighty good places. Cain't you, 'Lias?"

"I reckon. "

'Lias was thinking. He was distinctly grateful that the circumstances ofhis meeting with the minister had been so deftly passed over. But with ahalf idea of the superior moral responsibility under which a man inDokesbury's position labored, he wondered vaguely--to put it in his ownthought-words--"ef de preachah hadn't put' nigh lied. " However, he waswilling to forgive this little lapse of veracity, if such it was, out ofconsideration for the anxiety it spared his mother. 

When Stephen Gray came in to dinner, he was no less pleased than hiswife to note the terms of friendship on which the minister received hisson. On his face was the first smile that Dokesbury had seen there, andhe awakened from his taciturnity and proffered much information as tothe fishing-places thereabout. The young minister accounted this adistinct gain. Anything more than a frowning silence from the "littleyaller man" was gain. 

The fishing that afternoon was particularly good. Catfish, chubs, andsuckers were landed in numbers sufficient to please the heart of anyamateur angler. 

'Lias was happy, and the minister was in the best of spirits, for hischarge seemed promising. He looked on at the boy's jovial face, andlaughed within himself; for, mused he, "it is so much harder for thedevil to get into a cheerful heart than into a sullen, gloomy one. " Bythe time they were ready to go home Harold Dokesbury had received apromise from 'Lias to attend service the next morning and hear thesermon. 

There was a great jollification over the fish supper that night, and'Lias and the minister were the heroes of the occasion. The old managain broke his silence, and recounted, with infinite dryness, ancienttales of his prowess with rod and line; while Aunt "Ca'line" told offamous fish suppers that in the bygone days she had cooked for "de whitefolks. " In the midst of it all, however, 'Lias disappeared. No one hadnoticed when he slipped out, but all seemed to become conscious of hisabsence about the same time. The talk shifted, and finally simmered intosilence. 

When the Rev. Mr. Dokesbury went to bed that night, his charge had notyet returned. 

The young minister woke early on the Sabbath morning, and he may beforgiven that the prospect of the ordeal through which he had to passdrove his care for 'Lias out of mind for the first few hours. But as hewalked to church, flanked on one side by Aunt Caroline in the stiffestof ginghams and on the other by her husband stately in the magnificenceof an antiquated "Jim-swinger, " his mind went back to the boy withsorrow. Where was he? What was he doing? Had the fear of a dull churchservice frightened him back to his old habits and haunts? There was anew sadness at the preacher's heart as he threaded his way down thecrowded church and ascended the rude pulpit. 

The church was stiflingly hot, and the morning sun still beatrelentlessly in through the plain windows. The seats were rude woodenbenches, in some instances without backs. To the right, filling theinner corner, sat the pillars of the church, stern, grim, and critical. Opposite them, and, like them, in seats at right angles to the mainbody, sat the older sisters, some of them dressed with goodold-fashioned simplicity, while others yielding to newer tendencies weregotten up in gaudy attempts at finery. In the rear seats a dozen or somuch beribboned mulatto girls tittered and giggled, and cast boldglances at the minister. 

The young man sighed as he placed the manuscript of his sermon betweenthe leaves of the tattered Bible. "And this is Mt. Hope, " he was againsaying to himself. 

It was after the prayer and in the midst of the second hymn that a morepronounced titter from the back seats drew his attention. He raised hishead to cast a reproving glance at the irreverent, but the sight thatmet his eyes turned that look into one of horror. 'Lias had just enteredthe church, and with every mark of beastly intoxication was staggeringup the aisle to a seat, into which he tumbled in a drunken heap. Thepreacher's soul turned sick within him, and his eyes sought the face ofthe mother and father. The old woman was wiping her eyes, and the oldman sat with his gaze bent upon the floor, lines of sorrow drawn abouthis wrinkled mouth. 

All of a sudden a great revulsion of feeling came over Dokesbury. Trembling he rose and opened the Bible. There lay his sermon, polishedand perfected. The opening lines seemed to him like glints from a brightcold crystal. What had he to say to these people, when the fullrealization of human sorrow and care and of human degradation had justcome to him? What had they to do with firstlies and secondlies, withpremises and conclusions? What they wanted was a strong hand to helpthem over the hard places of life and a loud voice to cheer them throughthe dark. He closed the book again upon his precious sermon. A somethingnew had been born in his heart. He let his glance rest for anotherinstant on the mother's pained face and the father's bowed form, andthen turning to the congregation began, "Come unto me, all ye that laborand are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall findrest unto your souls. " Out of the fullness of his heart he spoke untothem. Their great need informed his utterance. He forgot his carefullyturned sentences and perfectly rounded periods. He forgot all save thathere was the well-being of a community put into his hands whose realcondition he had not even suspected until now. The situation wrought himup. His words went forth like winged fire, and the emotional people weremoved beyond control. They shouted, and clapped their hands, and praisedthe Lord loudly. 

When the service was over, there was much gathering about the youngpreacher, and handshaking. Through all 'Lias had slept. His motherstarted toward him; but the minister managed to whisper to her, "Leavehim to me. " When the congregation had passed out, Dokesbury shook 'Lias. The boy woke, partially sobered, and his face fell before the preacher'seyes. 

"Come, my boy, let's go home. " Arm in arm they went out into the street, where a number of scoffers had gathered to have a laugh at the abashedboy; but Harold Dokesbury's strong arm steadied his steps, and somethingin his face checked the crowd's hilarity. Silently they cleared the way, and the two passed among them and went home. 

The minister saw clearly the things which he had to combat in hiscommunity, and through this one victim he determined to fight thegeneral evil. The people with whom he had to deal were children who mustbe led by the hand. The boy lying in drunken sleep upon his bed was noworse than the rest of them. He was an epitome of the evil, as hisparents were of the sorrows, of the place. 

He could not talk to Elias. He could not lecture him. He would only bedashing his words against the accumulated evil of years of bondage asthe ripples of a summer sea beat against a stone wall. It was not thewickedness of this boy he was fighting or even the wrong-doing of Mt. Hope. It was the aggregation of the evils of the fathers, thegrandfathers, the masters and mistresses of these people. Against thiswhat could talk avail?

The boy slept on, and the afternoon passed heavily away. Aunt Carolinewas finding solace in her pipe, and Stephen Gray sulked in moody silencebeside the hearth. Neither of them joined their guest at eveningservice. 

He went, however. It was hard to face those people again after theevents of the morning. He could feel them covertly nudging each otherand grinning as he went up to the pulpit. He chided himself for themomentary annoyance it caused him. Were they not like so many naughty, irresponsible children?

The service passed without unpleasantness, save that he went home withan annoyingly vivid impression of a yellow girl with red ribbons on herhat, who pretended to be impressed by his sermon and made eyes at himfrom behind her handkerchief. 

On the way to his room that night, as he passed Stephen Gray, the oldman whispered huskily, "It's de fus' time 'Lias evah done dat. "

It was the only word he had spoken since morning. 

A sound sleep refreshed Dokesbury, and restored the tone to hisovertaxed nerves. When he came out in the morning, Elias was already inthe kitchen. He too had slept off his indisposition, but it had beensucceeded by a painful embarrassment that proved an effectual barrier toall intercourse with him. The minister talked lightly and amusingly, butthe boy never raised his eyes from his plate, and only spoke when he wascompelled to answer some direct questions. 

Harold Dokesbury knew that unless he could overcome this reserve, hispower over the youth was gone. He bent every effort to do it. 

"What do you say to a turn down the street with me?" he asked as herose from breakfast. 

'Lias shook his head. 

"What! You haven't deserted me already?"

The older people had gone out, but young Gray looked furtively aboutbefore he replied: "You know I ain't fittin' to go out withyou--aftah--aftah--yestiddy. "

A dozen appropriate texts rose in the preacher's mind, but he knew thatit was not a preaching time, so he contented himself with saying, --

"Oh, get out! Come along!"

"No, I cain't. I cain't. I wisht I could! You needn't think I's ashamed, 'cause I ain't. Plenty of 'em git drunk, an' I don't keer nothin' 'boutdat"--this in a defiant tone. 

"Well, why not come along then?"

"I tell you I cain't. Don't ax me no mo'. It ain't on my account I won'tgo. It's you. "

"Me! Why, I want you to go. "

"I know you does, but I mustn't. Cain't you see that dey'd be glad tosay dat--dat you was in cahoots wif me an' you tuk yo' dram on de sly?"

"I don't care what they say so long as it isn't true. Are you coming?"

"No, I ain't. "

He was perfectly determined, and Dokesbury saw that there was no usearguing with him. So with a resigned "All right!" he strode out the gateand up the street, thinking of the problem he had to solve. 

There was good in Elias Gray, he knew. It was a shame that it should belost. It would be lost unless he were drawn strongly away from the pathshe was treading. But how could it be done? Was there no point in hismind that could be reached by what was other than evil? That was thething to be found out. Then he paused to ask himself if, after all, hewere not trying to do too much, --trying, in fact, to play Providence toElias. He found himself involuntarily wanting to shift theresponsibility of planning for the youth. He wished that somethingentirely independent of his intentions would happen. 

Just then something did happen. A piece of soft mud hurled from someunknown source caught the minister square in the chest, and spatteredover his clothes. He raised his eyes and glanced about quickly, but noone was in sight. Whoever the foe was, he was securely ambushed. 

"Thrown by the hand of a man, " mused Dokesbury, "prompted by the maliceof a child. "

He went on his way, finished his business, and returned to the house. 

"La, Brothah Dokesbury!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline, "what's de mattah 'fyou' shu't bosom?"

"Oh, that's where one of our good citizens left his card. "

"You don' mean to say none o' dem low-life scoun'els----"

"I don't know who did it. He took particular pains to keep out ofsight. "

"'Lias!" the old woman cried, turning on her son, "wha' 'd you letBrothah Dokesbury go off by hisse'f fu? Why n't you go 'long an' tekkeer o' him?"

The old lady stopped even in the midst of her tirade, as her eyes tookin the expression on her son's face. 

"I'll kill some o' dem damn----"

"'Lias!"

"'Scuse me, Mistah Dokesbury, but I feel lak I'll bus' ef I don't'spress myse'f. It makes me so mad. Don't you go out o' hyeah no mo''dout me. I'll go 'long an' I'll brek somebody's haid wif a stone. "

"'Lias! how you talkin' fo' de ministah?"

"Well, dat's whut I'll do, 'cause I kin outth'ow any of 'em an' I knowdey hidin'-places. "

"I'll be glad to accept your protection, " said Dokesbury. 

He saw his advantage, and was thankful for the mud, --the one thing thatwithout an effort restored the easy relations between himself and hisprotégé. 

Ostensibly these relations were reversed, and Elias went out with thepreacher as a guardian and protector. But the minister was laying hisnets. It was on one of these rambles that he broached to 'Lias a subjectwhich he had been considering for some time. 

"Look here, 'Lias, " he said, "what are you going to do with that bigback yard of yours?"

"Oh, nothin'. 'Tain't no 'count to raise nothin' in. "

"It may not be fit for vegetables, but it will raise something. "

"What?"

"Chickens. That's what. "

Elias laughed sympathetically. 

"I'd lak to eat de chickens I raise. I wouldn't want to be feedin' deneighborhood. "

"Plenty of boards, slats, wire, and a good lock and key would fix thatall right. "

"Yes, but whah 'm I gwine to git all dem things?"

"Why, I'll go in with you and furnish the money, and help you build thecoops. Then you can sell chickens and eggs, and we'll go halves on theprofits. "

"Hush man!" cried 'Lias, in delight. 

So the matter was settled, and, as Aunt Caroline expressed it, "Fu' aweek er sich a mattah, you nevah did see sich ta'in' down an' buildin'up in all yo' bo'n days. "

'Lias went at the work with zest and Dokesbury noticed his skill withtools. He let fall the remark: "Say, 'Lias, there's a school near herewhere they teach carpentry; why don't you go and learn?"

"What I gwine to do with bein' a cyahpenter?"

"Repair some of these houses around Mt. Hope, if nothing more, "Dokesbury responded, laughing; and there the matter rested. 

The work prospered, and as the weeks went on, 'Lias's enterprise becamethe town's talk. One of Aunt Caroline's patrons who had come with someorders about work regarded the changed condition of affairs, and said, "Why, Aunt Caroline, this doesn't look like the same place. I'll have tobuy some eggs from you; you keep your yard and hen-house so nice, it'san advertisement for the eggs. "

"Don't talk to me nothin' 'bout dat ya'd, Miss Lucy, " Aunt Caroline hadretorted. "Dat 'long to 'Lias an' de preachah. Hit dey doin's. Dey donemos' nigh drove me out wif dey cleanness. I ain't nevah seed no sichca'in' on in my life befo'. Why, my 'Lias done got right brigity an'talk about bein' somep'n. "

Dokesbury had retired from his partnership with the boy save in so faras he acted as a general supervisor. His share had been sold to a friendof 'Lias, Jim Hughes. The two seemed to have no other thought save ofraising, tending, and selling chickens. 

Mt. Hope looked on and ceased to scoff. Money is a great dignifier, andJim and 'Lias were making money. There had been some sniffs when thelatter had hinged the front gate and whitewashed his mother's cabin, buteven that had been accepted now as a matter of course. 

Dokesbury had done his work. He, too, looked on, and in somesatisfaction. 

"Let the leaven work, " he said, "and all Mt. Hope must rise. "

It was one day, nearly a year later, that "old lady Hughes" dropped inon Aunt Caroline for a chat. 

"Well, I do say, Sis' Ca'line, dem two boys o' ourn done sot dis town onfiah. "

"What now, Sis' Lizy?"

"Why, evah sence 'Lias tuk it into his haid to be a cyahpenter an' Jim'cided to go 'long an' lu'n to be a blacksmiff, some o' dese hyeahothah young people's been trying to do somep'n'. "

"All dey wanted was a staht. "

"Well, now will you b'lieve me, dat no-'count Tom Johnson done opened afish sto', an' he has de boys an' men bring him dey fish all de time. Hegives 'em a little somep'n fu' dey ketch, den he go sell 'em to de whitefolks. "

"Lawd, how long!"

"An' what you think he say?"

"I do' know, sis'. "

"He say ez soon 'z he git money enough, he gwine to dat school whah'Lias and Jim gone an' lu'n to fahm scientific. "

"Bless de Lawd! Well, 'um, I don' put nothin' pas' de young folks now. "

Mt. Hope had at last awakened. Something had come to her to which shemight aspire, --something that she could understand and reach. She wasnot soaring, but she was rising above the degradation in which HaroldDokesbury had found her. And for her and him the ordeal had passed. 

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

The Negro race in America has produced musicians, composers andpainters, but it was left for Paul Laurence Dunbar to give it fame inliterature. He was of pure African stock; his father and mother wereborn in slavery, and neither had any schooling, although the father hadtaught himself to read. Paul was born in Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Hewas christened Paul, because his father said that he was to be a greatman. He was a diligent pupil at school, and began to make verses when hewas still a child. His ability was recognized by his class mates; he wasmade editor of the high school paper, and wrote the class song for hiscommencement. 

The death of his father made it necessary for him to support his mother. He sought for some employment where his education might be put to someuse, but finding such places closed to him, he became an elevator boy. He continued to write, however, and in 1892 his first volume waspublished, a book of poems called _Oak and Ivy_. The publishers were sodoubtful of its success that they would not bring it out until a friendadvanced the cost of publication. Paul now sold books to the passengersin his elevator, and realized enough to repay his friend. He wasoccasionally asked to give readings from his poetry. Gifted as he waswith a deep, melodious voice, and a fine power of mimicry, he was verysuccessful. In 1893 he was sought out by a man who was organizing aconcert company and who engaged Paul to go along as reader. Full ofenthusiasm, he set to work committing his poems to memory, and writingnew ones. Ten days before the company was to start, word came that ithad been disbanded. Paul found himself at the approach of winter withoutmoney and without work, and with his mother in real need. In hisdiscouragement he even thought of suicide, but by the help of a friendhe found work, and with it courage. In a letter written about this timehe tells of his ambitions: "I did once want to be a lawyer, but thatambition has long since died out before the all-absorbing desire to be aworthy singer of the songs of God and nature. To be able to interpret myown people through song and story, and to prove to the many that we aremore human than African. "

A second volume of poems, _Majors and Minors_, appeared in 1895. Likehis first book it was printed by a local publisher, and had but a smallsale. The actor James A. Herne happened to be playing _Shore Acres_ inToledo; Paul saw him, admired his acting, and timidly presented him witha copy of his book. Mr. Herne read it with great pleasure, and sent iton to his friend William Dean Howells, who was then editor of _Harper'sWeekly_. In June, 1896, there appeared in that journal a full-pagereview of the work of Paul Laurence Dunbar, quoting freely from hispoems, and praising them highly. This recognition by America's greatestcritic was the beginning of Paul's national reputation. Orders came forhis books from all over the country; a manager engaged him for a seriesof readings from his poems, and a New York firm, Dodd Mead & Co. , arranged to bring out his next book, _Lyrics of Lowly Life_. 

In 1897 he went to England to give a series of readings. Here he was aguest at the Savage Club, one of the best-known clubs of London. Hisreadings were very successful, but a dishonest manager cheated him outof the proceeds, and he was obliged to cable to his friends for money tocome home. 

Through the efforts of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, the young poet obtaineda position in the Congressional Library at Washington. It was thoughtthat this would give him just the opportunity he needed for study, butthe work proved too confining for his health. The year 1898 was markedby two events: the publication of his first book of short stories, _Folks From Dixie_, and his marriage to Miss Alice R. Moore. In 1899 atthe request of Booker T. Washington he went to Tuskeegee and gaveseveral readings and lectures before the students, also writing a schoolsong for them. He made a tour through the South, giving readings withmuch success, but the strain of public appearances was beginning to tellupon his health. He continued to write, and in 1899 published _Lyrics ofthe Hearthside_, dedicated to his wife. He was invited to go to Albanyto read before a distinguished audience, where Theodore Roosevelt, thengovernor, was to introduce him. He started, but was unable to getfarther than New York. Here he lay sick for weeks, and when he grewstronger, the doctors said that his lungs were affected and he must havea change of climate. He went to Colorado in the fall of 1899, and wroteback to a friend: "Well, it is something to sit under the shadow of theRocky Mountains, even if one only goes there to die. " From this time onhis life was one long fight for health, and usually a losing battle, buthe faced it as courageously as Robert Louis Stevenson had done. InColorado he wrote a novel, The _Love of Landry_, whose scene was laid inhis new surroundings. He returned to Washington in 1900, and gaveoccasional readings, but it was evident that his strength was failing. He published two more volumes, _The Strength of Gideon_, a book of shortstories, and _Poems of Cabin and Field_, which showed that his geniushad lost none of its power. His last years were spent in Dayton, his oldhome, with his mother. He died February 10, 1906. 

One of the finest tributes to him was paid by his friend Brand Whitlock, then Mayor of Toledo, who has since become famous as United StatesMinister to Belgium during the Great War. This is from a letter writtenwhen he heard that the young poet was dead:

 Paul was a poet: and I find that when I have said that I have said the greatest and most splendid thing that can be said about a man.... Nature, who knows so much better than man about everything, cares nothing at all for the little distinctions, and when she elects one of her children for her most important work, bestows on him the rich gift of poesy, and assigns him a post in the greatest of the arts, she invariably seizes the opportunity to show her contempt of rank and title and race and land and creed. She took Burns from a plough and Paul from an elevator, and Paul has done for his own people what Burns did for the peasants of Scotland--he has expressed them in their own way and in their own words. 

WITH THE POLICE

_Not all Americans are good Americans. For the lawbreakers, Americanborn or otherwise, we need men to enforce the law. Of these guardians ofpublic safety, one body, the Pennsylvania State Police, has becomefamous for its achievements. Katherine Mayo studied their work at firsthand, met the men of the force, visited the scenes of their activity, and in_ THE STANDARD BEARERS, _tells of their daring exploits. Thisstory is taken from that book_. 

ISRAEL DRAKE

BY

KATHERINE MAYO

Israel Drake was a bandit for simple love of the thing. To hunt foranother reason would be a waste of time. The blood in his veins was pureEnglish, unmixed since long ago. His environment was that of hisneighbors. His habitat was the noble hills. But Israel Drake was abandit, just as his neighbors were farmers--just as a hawk is a hawkwhile its neighbors are barnyard fowls. 

Israel Drake was swarthy-visaged, high of cheek bone, with large, dark, deep-set eyes, and a thin-lipped mouth covered by a long and droopingblack mustache. Barefooted, he stood six feet two inches tall. Lean as apanther, and as supple, he could clear a five-foot rail fence withoutthe aid of his hand. He ran like a deer. As a woodsman the very deercould have taught him little. With rifle and revolver he was an expertshot, and the weapons he used were the truest and best. 

All the hill-people of Cumberland County dreaded him. All the scatteredvalley-folk spoke softly at his name. And the jest and joy of Israel'scare-free life was to make them skip and shiver and dance to the tune oftheir trepidations. 

As a matter of fact, he was leader of a gang, outlaws every one. But hisown strong aura eclipsed the rest, and he glared alone, in the thoughtof his world, endued with terrors of diverse origin. 

His genius kept him fully aware of the value of this preeminence, and itlay in his wisdom and pleasure to fan the flame of his own repute. Inthis it amused him to seek the picturesque--the unexpected. With animagination fed by primeval humor and checked by no outwardcircumstances of law, he achieved a ready facility. Once, for example, while trundling through his town of Shippensburg on the rear platform ofa freight train, he chanced to spy a Borough Constable crossing a bridgenear the track. 

"Happy thought! Let's touch the good soul up. He's getting stodgy. "

Israel drew a revolver and fired, neatly nicking the Constable's hat. Then with a mountaineer's hoot, he gayly proclaimed his identity. 

Again, and many times, he would send into this or that town orsettlement a message addressed to the Constable or Chief of Police:--

"I am coming down this afternoon. Get away out of town. Don't let mefind you there. "

Obediently they went away. And Israel, strolling the streets thatafternoon just as he had promised to do, would enter shop after shop, look over the stock at his leisure, and, with perfect good-humor, pickout whatever pleased him, regardless of cost. 

"I think I'll take this here article, " he would say to the tremblingstore-keeper, affably pocketing his choice. 

"Help yourself, Mr. Drake! Help yourself, sir! Glad we are able toplease you to-day. "

Which was indeed the truth. And many of them there were who would havehastened to curry favor with their persecutor by whispering in his ear aword of warning had they known of any impending attempt against him bythe agents of peace. 

Such was their estimate of the relative strength of Israel Drake and ofthe law forces of the Sovereign State of Pennsylvania. 

In the earlier times they had tried to arrest him. Once the attemptsucceeded and Israel went to the Penitentiary for a term. But he emergeda better and wilier bandit than before, to embark upon a career thatmade his former life seem tame. Sheriffs and constables now provedpowerless against him, whatever they essayed. 

Then came a grand, determined effort when the Sheriff, supported byfifteen deputies, all heavily armed, actually surrounded Drake's house. But the master-outlaw, alone and at ease at an upper window, hisWinchester repeating-rifle in his hand and a smile of still content onhis face, coolly stood the whole army off until, weary of empty danger, it gave up the siege and went home. 

This disastrous expedition ended the attempts of the local authoritiesto capture Israel Drake. Thenceforth he pursued his natural coursewithout pretense of let or hindrance. At the time when this storybegins, no fewer than fourteen warrants were out for his apprehension, issued on charges ranging from burglary and highway robbery through along list of felonies. But the warrants, slowly accumulating, lay in thebottom of official drawers, apprehending nothing but dust. No oneundertook to serve them. Life was too sweet--too short. 

Then came a turn of fate. Israel chanced to bethink himself of a certainaged farmer living with his old wife near a spot called Lee'sCross-Road. The two dwelt by themselves, without companions on theirfarm, and without neighbors. And they were reputed to have money. 

The money might not be much--might be exceedingly little. But, even so, Israel could use it, and in any event there would be the fun of thetrick. So Israel summoned one Carey Morrison, a gifted mate andsubordinate, with whom he proceeded to act. 

At dead of night the two broke into the farmhouse--crept into thechamber of the old pair--crept softly, softly, lest the farmer mightkeep a shotgun by his side. Sneaking to the foot of the bed, Israelsuddenly flashed his lantern full upon the pillows--upon the two pale, deep-seamed faces crowned with silver hair. 

The woman sat up with a piercing scream. The farmer clutched at hisgun. But Israel, bringing the glinting barrel of his revolver into thelantern's shaft of light, ordered both to lie down. Carey, slouching athand, awaited orders. 

"Where is your money?" demanded Israel, indicating the farmer by thepoint of his gun. 

"I have no money, you coward!"

"It's no use your lying to me. _Where's the money?_"

"I have no money, I tell you. "

"Carey, " observed Israel, "hunt a candle. "

While Carey looked for the candle, Israel surveyed his victims with acheerful, anticipatory grin. 

The candle came; was lighted. 

"Carey, " Israel spoke again, "you pin the old woman down. Pull the quiltoff. Clamp her feet together. So!"

Then he thrust the candle-flame against the soles of those gnarled oldfeet--thrust it close, while the flame bent upward, and the meltingtallow poured upon the bed. 

The woman screamed again, this time in pain. The farmer half rose, witha quivering cry of rage, but Israel's gun stared him between the eyes. The woman screamed without interval. There was a smell of burning flesh. 

"Now we'll change about, " remarked Israel, beaming. "I'll hold the oldfeller. You take the candle, Carey. You don't reely need your gun--now, do ye, boy?"

And so they began afresh. 

It was not a game to last long. Before dawn the two were back in theirown place, bearing the little all of value that the rifled house hadcontained. 

When the news of the matter spread abroad, it seemed, somehow, just astraw too much. The District Attorney of the County of Cumberland blazedinto white heat. But he was powerless, he found. Not an officer withinhis entire jurisdiction expressed any willingness even to attempt anarrest. 

"Then we shall see, " said District Attorney Rhey, "what the State willdo for us, since we cannot help ourselves!" And he rushed off atelegram, confirmed by post, to the Superintendent of the Department ofState Police. 

The Superintendent of the Department of State Police promptly referredthe matter to the Captain of "C" Troop, with orders to act. ForCumberland County, being within the southeastern quarter of theCommonwealth, lies under "C" Troop's special care. 

It was Adams, in those days, who held that command--Lynn G. Adams, nowCaptain of "A" Troop, although for the duration of the war serving inthe regular army, even as his fathers before him have served in ourevery war, including that which put the country on the map. Truersoldier, finer officer, braver or straighter or surer dealer with menand things need not be sought. His victories leave no needless scarbehind, and his command would die by inches rather than fail himanywhere. 

The Captain of "C" Troop, then, choosing with judgment, picked hisman--picked Trooper Edward Hallisey, a Boston Irishman, square of jaw, shrewd of eye, quick of wit, strong of wind and limb. And he orderedPrivate Hallisey to proceed at once to Carlisle, county seat ofCumberland, and report to the District Attorney for service towardeffecting the apprehension of Israel Drake. 

Three days later--it was the 28th of September, to be exact--PrivateEdward Hallisey sent in his report to his Troop Commander. He had madeall necessary observations, he said, and was ready to arrest thecriminal. In this he would like to have the assistance of two Troopers, who should join him at Carlisle. 

The report came in the morning mail. First Sergeant Price detailed twomen from the Barracks reserve. They were Privates H. K. Merryfield andHarvey J. Smith. Their orders were simply to proceed at once, incivilian clothes, to Carlisle, where they would meet Private Halliseyand assist him in effecting the arrest of Israel Drake. 

Privates Merryfield and Smith, carrying in addition to their servicerevolvers the 44-caliber Springfield carbine which is the Force's heavyweapon, left by the next train. 

On the Carlisle station platform, as the two Troopers debarked, somehundred persons were gathered in pursuance of various and centrifugaldesigns. But one impulse they appeared unanimously to share--the impulseto give as wide a berth as possible to a peculiarly horrible tramp. 

Why should a being like that intrude himself upon a passenger platformin a respectable country town? Not to board a coach, surely, for such ashe pay no fares. To spy out the land? To steal luggage? Or simply tomake himself hateful to decent folk?

He carried his head with a hangdog lurch--his heavy jaw was rough withstubble beard. His coat and trousers fluttered rags and his toes stuckout of his boots. Women snatched back their skirts as he slouched near, and men muttered and scowled at him for a contaminating beast. 

Merryfield and Smith, drifting near this scum of the earth, caught thewords "Four-thirty train" and the name of a station. 

"Right, " murmured Merryfield. 

Then he went and bought tickets. 

In the shelter of an ancient, grimy day-coach, the scum muttered again, as Smith brushed past him in the aisle. 

"Charlie Stover's farm, " said he. 

"M'm, " said Smith. 

At a scrap of a station, in the foothills of ascending heights the trampand the Troopers separately detrained. In the early evening all threestrayed together once more in the shadow of the lilacs by CharlieStover's gate. 

Over the supper-table Hallisey gave the news. "Drake is somewhere on themountain to-night, " said he. "His cabin is way up high, on a ridgecalled Huckleberry Patch. He is practically sure to go home in thecourse of the evening. Then is our chance. First, of course, you fellowswill change your clothes. I've got some old things ready for you. "

Farmer Stover, like every other denizen of the rural county, had livedfor years in terror and hatred of Israel Drake. Willingly he had aidedHallisey to the full extent of his power. He had told all that he knewof the bandit's habits and mates. He had indicated the mountain trailsand he had given the Trooper such little shelter and food as the latterhad stopped to take during his rapid work of investigation. But now hewas asked to perform a service that he would gladly have refused; he wasasked to hitch up a horse and wagon and to drive the three Troopers tothe very vicinity of Israel Drake's house. 

"Oh, come on, Mr. Stover, " they urged. "You're a public-spirited man, asyou've shown. Do it for your neighbors' sake if not for your own. Youwant the county rid of this pest. "

Very reluctantly the farmer began the trip. With every turn of theever-mounting forest road his reluctance grew. Grisly memories, grislypictures, flooded his mind. It was night, and the trees in the darknesswhispered like evil men. The bushes huddled like crouching figures. Andwhat was it, moving stealthily over there, that crackled twigs? At lasthe could bear it no more. 

"Here's where _I_ turn 'round, " he muttered hoarsely. "If you fellersare going farther you'll go alone. I got a use for _my_ life!"

"All right, then, " said Hallisey. "You've done well by us already. Good-night. "

It was a fine moonlight night and Hallisey now knew those woods as wellas did his late host. He led his two comrades up another stiff mile ofsteady climbing. Then he struck off, by an almost invisible trail, intothe dense timber. Silently the three men moved, threading the fragrant, silver-flecked blackness with practised woodsmen's skill. At last theirfile-leader stopped and beckoned his mates. 

Over his shoulder the two studied the scene before them: A clearingchopped out of the dense tall timber. In the midst of the clearing a logcabin, a story and a half high. On two sides of the cabin a stragglingorchard of peach and apple trees. In the cabin window a dim light. 

It was then about eleven o'clock. The three Troopers, effacingthemselves in the shadows, laid final plans. 

The cabin had two rooms on the top floor and one below, said Hallisey, beneath his breath. The first-floor room had a door and two windows onthe north, and the same on the south, just opposite. Under the west endwas a cellar, with an outside door. Before the main door to the northwas a little porch. This, by day, commanded the sweep of themountain-side; and here, when Drake was "hiding out" in some neighboringeyrie, expecting pursuit, his wife was wont to signal him concerning themovements of intruders. 

Her code was written in dish-water. A panful thrown to the east meantdanger in the west, and _vice versa_; this Hallisey himself had seen andnow recalled in case of need. 

Up to the present moment each officer had carried his carbine, takenapart and wrapped in a bundle, to avoid the remark of chance observersby the way. Now each put his weapon together, ready for use. Theycompared their watches, setting them to the second. They discarded theircoats and hats. 

The moon was flooding the clearing with high, pale light, adding greatlyto the difficulty of their task. Accordingly, they plotted carefully. Each Trooper took a door--Hallisey that to the north, Merryfield that tothe south, Smith that of the cellar. It was agreed that each shouldcreep to a point opposite the door on which he was to advance, tenminutes being allowed for all to reach their initial positions; that atexactly five minutes to midnight the advance should be started, slowly, through the tall grass of the clearing toward the cabin; that in case ofany unusual noise or alarm, each man should lie low exactly five minutesbefore resuming this advance; and that from a point fifty yards from thecabin a rush should be made upon the doors. 

According to the request of the District Attorney, Drake was to be taken"dead or alive, " but according to an adamantine principle of the Force, he must be taken not only alive, but unscathed if that were humanlypossible. This meant that he must not be given an opportunity to run andso render shooting necessary. If, however, he should break away, hischance of escape would be small, as each Trooper was a dead shot withthe weapons he was carrying. 

The scheme concerted, the three officers separated, heading apart totheir several starting-points. At five minutes before midnight, to thetick of their synchronized watches, each began to glide through the tallgrass. But it was late September. The grass was dry. Old briar-veinsdragged at brittle stalks. Shimmering whispers of withered leaves echoedto the smallest touch; and when the men were still some two hundredyards from the cabin the sharp ears of a dog caught the rumor of allthese tiny sounds, --and the dog barked. 

Every man stopped short--moved not a finger again till five minutes hadpassed. Then once more each began to creep--reached the fifty-yardpoint--stood up, with a long breath, and dashed for his door. 

At one and the same moment, practically, the three stood in the cabin, viewing a scene of domestic peace. A short, square, swarthy woman, blackof eye, high of cheek bone, stood by a stove calmly stirring a pot. Onthe table besides her, on the floor around her, clustered many jars ofpeaches--jars freshly filled, steaming hot, awaiting their tops. In acorner three little children, huddled together on a low bench, stared atthe strangers with sleepy eyes. Three chairs; a cupboard with dishes;bunches of corn hanging from the rafters by their husks; festoons ofonions; tassels of dried herbs--all this made visible by the dull lightof a small kerosene lamp whose dirty chimney was streaked with smoke. All this and nothing more. 

Two of the men, jumping for the stairs, searched the upper half-storythoroughly, but without profit. 

"Mrs. Drake, " said Hallisey, as they returned, "we are officers of theState Police, come to arrest your husband. Where is he?"

In silence, in utter calm the woman still stirred her pot, not missingthe rhythm of a stroke. 

"The dog warned them. He's just got away, " said each officer to himself. "She's _too_ calm. "

She scooped up a spoonful of the fruit, peered at it critically, splashed it back into the bubbling pot. From her manner it appeared themost natural thing in the world to be canning peaches at midnight on thetop of South Mountain in the presence of officers of the State Police. 

"My husband's gone to Baltimore, " she vouchsafed at her easy leisure. 

"Let's have a look in the cellar, " said Merryfield, and dropped down thecellar stairs with Hallisey at his heels. Together they ransacked thelittle cave to a conclusion. During the process, Merryfield conceived anidea. 

"Hallisey, " he murmured, "what would you think of my staying down here, while you and Smith go off talking as though we were all together? Shemight say something to the children, when she believes we're gone, and Icould hear every word through that thin floor. "

"We'll do it!" Hallisey answered, beneath his voice. Then, shouting:--

"Come on, Smith! Let's get away from this; no use wasting time here!"

And in another moment Smith and Hallisey were crashing up themountain-side, calling out: "Hi, there! Merryfield--Oh! Merryfield, wait for us!"--as if their comrade had outstripped them on the trail. 

Merryfield had made use of the noise of their departure to establishhimself in a tenable position under the widest crack in the floor. Nowhe held himself motionless, subduing even his breath. 

One--two--three minutes of dead silence. Then came the timoroushalf-whisper of a frightened child:

"Will them men kill father if they find him?"

"S-sh!"

"Mother!" faintly ventured another little voice, "will them men killfather if they find him?"

"S-sh! S-sh! I tell ye!"

"Ma-ma! Will they kill my father?" This was the wail, insistent, uncontrolled, of the smallest child of all. 

The crackling tramp of the officers, mounting the trail, had wholly diedaway. The woman evidently believed all immediate danger past. 

"No!" she exclaimed vehemently, "they ain't goin' to lay eyes on yo'father, hair nor hide of him. Quit yer frettin'!"

In a moment she spoke again: "You keep still, now, like good children, while I go out and empty these peach-stones. I'll be back in a minute. See you keep still just where you are!"

Stealing noiselessly to the cellar door as the woman left the house, Merryfield saw her making for the woods, a basket on her arm. He watchedher till the shadows engulfed her. Then he drew back to his own placeand resumed his silent vigil. 

Moments passed, without a sound from the room above. Then came softlittle thuds on the floor, a whimper or two, small sighs, and a slitherof bare legs on bare boards. 

"Poor little kiddies!" thought Merryfield, "they're coiling down tosleep!"

Back in the days when the Force was started, the Major had said to eachrecruit of them all:--

"I expect you to treat women and children at all times with everyconsideration. "

From that hour forth the principle has been grafted into the lives ofthe men. It is instinct now--self-acting, deep, and unconscious. Notried Trooper deliberately remembers it. It is an integral part of him, like the drawing of his breath. 

"I wish I could manage to spare those babies and their mother in what'sto come!" Merryfield pondered as he lurked in the mould-scented dark. 

A quarter of an hour went by. Five minutes more. Footsteps nearing thecabin from the direction of the woods. Low voices--very low. Indistinguishable words. Then the back door opened. Two persons entered, and all that they now uttered was clear. 

"It was them that the dog heard, " said a man's voice. "Get me my rifleand all my ammunition. I'll go to Maryland. I'll get a job on that stonequarry near Westminster. I'll send some money as soon as I'm paid. "

"But you won't start _to-night_!" exclaimed the wife. 

"Yes, to-night--this minute. Quick! I wouldn't budge an inch for theCounty folks. But with the State Troopers after me, that's anotherthing. If I stay around here now they'll get me dead sure--and send meup too. My gun, I say!"

"Oh, daddy, daddy, don't go away!" "_Don't_ go away off and leave me, daddy!" "_Don't go, don't go!_" came the children's plaintive wails, hoarse with fatigue and fright. 

Merryfield stealthily crept from the cellar's outside door, hugging thewall of the cabin, moving toward the rear. As he reached the corner, andwas about to make the turn toward the back, he drew his six-shooter andlaid his carbine down in the grass. For the next step, he knew, wouldbring him into plain sight. If Drake offered any resistance, theensuing action would be at short range or hand to hand. 

He rounded the corner. Drake was standing just outside the door, a riflein his left hand, his right hand hidden in the pocket of his overcoat. In the doorway stood the wife, with the three little children crowdingbefore her. It was the last moment. They were saying good-bye. 

Merryfield covered the bandit with his revolver. 

"Put up your hands! You are under arrest, " he commanded. 

"Who the hell are you!" Drake flung back. As he spoke he thrust hisrifle into the grasp of the woman and snatched his right hand from itsconcealment. In its grip glistened the barrel of a nickel-platedrevolver. 

Merryfield could have easily shot him then and there--would have beenamply warranted in doing so. But he had heard the children's voices. Nowhe saw their innocent, terrified eyes. 

"Poor--little--kiddies!" he thought again. 

Drake stood six feet two inches high, and weighed some two hundredpounds, all brawn. Furthermore, he was desperate. Merryfield is merelyof medium build. 

"Nevertheless, I'll take a chance, " he said to himself, returning hissix-shooter to its holster. And just as the outlaw threw up his ownweapon to fire, the Trooper, in a running jump, plunged into him withall fours, exactly as, when a boy, he had plunged off a springboard intothe old mill-dam of a hot July afternoon. 

Too amazed even to pull his trigger, Drake gave backward a step into thedoorway. Merryfield's clutch toward his right hand missed the gun, fastening instead on the sleeve of his heavy coat. Swearing wildly whilethe woman and children screamed behind him, the bandit struggled tobreak the Trooper's hold--tore and pulled until the sleeve, whereMerryfield held it, worked down over the gun in his own grip. SoMerryfield, twisting the sleeve, caught a lock-hold on hand and guntogether. 

Drake, standing on the doorsill, had now some eight inches advantage ofheight. The door opened inward, from right to left. With a tremendouseffort Drake forced his assailant to his knees, stepped back into theroom, seized the door with his left hand and with the whole weight onhis shoulder slammed it to, on the Trooper's wrist. 

The pain was excruciating--but it did not break that lock-hold on theoutlaw's hand and gun. Shooting from his knees like a projectile, Merryfield flung his whole weight at the door. Big as Drake was, hecould not hold it. It gave, and once more the two men hung at grips, this time within the room. 

Drake's one purpose was to turn the muzzle of his imprisoned revolverupon Merryfield. Merryfield, with his left still clinching that deadlyhand caught in its sleeve, now grabbed the revolver in his own righthand, with a twist dragged it free, and flung it out of the door. 

But, as he dropped his right defense, taking both hands to the gun, theoutlaw's powerful left grip closed on Merryfield's throat with astrangle-hold. 

With that great thumb closing his windpipe, with the world turning redand black, "Guess I can't put it over, after all!" the Trooper said tohimself. 

Reaching for his own revolver, he shoved the muzzle against the bandit'sbreast. 

"Damn you, _shoot_!" cried the other, believing his end was come. 

But in that same instant Merryfield once more caught a glimpse of thefear-stricken faces of the babies, huddled together beyond. 

"Hallisey and Smith must be here soon, " he thought. "I won't shoot yet. "

Again he dropped his revolver back into the holster, seizing the wristof the outlaw to release that terrible clamp on his throat. As he didso, Drake with a lightning twist, reached around to the Trooper's beltand possessed himself of the gun. As he fired Merryfield had barely timeand space to throw back his head. The flash blinded him--scorched hisface hairless. The bullet grooved his body under the upflung arm stillwrenching at the clutch that was shutting off his breath. 

Perhaps, with the shot, the outlaw insensibly somewhat relaxed thatchoking arm. Merryfield tore loose. Half-blinded and gasping though hewas, he flung himself again at his adversary and landed a blow in hisface. Drake, giving backward, kicked over a row of peach jars, slippedon the slimy stream that poured over the bare floor, and dropped thegun. 

Pursuing his advantage, Merryfield delivered blow after blow on theoutlaw's face and body, backing him around the room, while both menslipped and slid, fell and recovered, on the jam-coated floor. The tablecrashed over, carrying with it the solitary lamp, whose flame diedharmlessly, smothered in tepid mush. Now only the moonlight illuminatedthe scene. 

Drake was manoeuvring always to recover the gun. His hand touched theback of a chair. He picked the chair up, swung it high, and was about tosmash it down on his adversary's head when Merryfield seized it in theair. 

At this moment the woman, who had been crouching against the wallnursing the rifle that her husband had put into her charge, rushedforward clutching the barrel of the gun, swung it at full arm's lengthas she would have swung an axe, and brought the stock down on theTrooper's right hand. 

That vital hand dropped--fractured, done. But in the same second Drakegave a shriek of pain as a shot rang out and his own right arm fellpowerless. 

In the door stood Hallisey, smoking revolver in hand, smiling grimly inthe moonlight at the neatness of his own aim. What is the use of killinga man, when you can wing him as trigly as that?

Private Smith, who had entered by the other door, was taking the rifleout of the woman's grasp--partly because she had prodded him viciouslywith the muzzle. He examined the chambers. 

"Do you know this thing is loaded?" he asked her in a mild, detachedvoice. 

She returned his gaze with frank despair in her black eyes. 

"Drake, do you surrender?" asked Hallisey. 

"Oh, I'll give up. You've got me!" groaned the outlaw. Then he turned onhis wife with bitter anger. "Didn't I tell ye?" he snarled. "Didn't Itell ye they'd get me if you kept me hangin' around here? These ain't nodamn deputies. _These is the State Police!_"

"An' yet, if I'd known that gun was loaded, " said she, "there'd beensome less of 'em to-night!"

They dressed Israel's arm in first-aid fashion. Then they started withtheir prisoner down the mountain-trail, at last resuming connection withtheir farmer friend. Not without misgivings, the latter consented tohitch up his "double team" and hurry the party to the nearest town wherea doctor could be found. 

As the doctor dressed the bandit's arm, Private Merryfield, whose brokenright hand yet awaited care, observed to the groaning patient:--

"Do you know, you can be thankful to your little children that you haveyour life left. "

"To hell with you and the children and my life. I'd a hundred timesrather you'd killed me than take what's comin' now. "

Then the three Troopers philosophically hunted up a night restaurant andgave their captive a bite of lunch. 

"Now, " said Hallisey, as he paid the score, "where's the lock-up?"

The three officers, with Drake in tow, proceeded silently through thesleeping streets. Not a ripple did their passing occasion. Not even adog aroused to take note of them. 

Duly they stood at the door of the custodian of the lock-up, ringing thebell--again and again ringing it. Eventually some one upstairs raised awindow, looked out for an appreciable moment, quickly lowered the windowand locked it. Nothing further occurred. Waiting for a reasonableinterval the officers rang once more. No answer. Silence complete. 

Then they pounded on the door till the entire block heard. 

Here, there, up street and down, bedroom windows gently opened, thenclosed with finality more gentle yet. Silence. Not a voice. Not a footon a stair. 

The officers looked at each other perplexed. Then, by chance, theylooked at Drake. Drake, so lately black with suicidal gloom, wasgrinning! Grinning as a man does when the citadel of his heart iscomforted. 

"You don't understand, do ye!" chuckled he. "Well, I'll tell ye: What dothem folks see when they open their windows and look down here in theroad? They see three hard-lookin' fellers with guns in their hands, herein this bright moonlight. And they see somethin' scarier to them than ahundred strangers with guns--they see _ME_! There ain't a mother's sonof 'em that'll budge downstairs while I'm here, not if you pound ontheir doors till the cows come home. " And he slapped his knee with hisgood hand and laughed in pure ecstasy--a laugh that caught all thelittle group and rocked it as with one mind. 

"We don't begrudge you that, do we boys?" Hallisey conceded. "Smith, you're as respectable-looking as any of us. Hunt around and see if youcan find a Constable that isn't onto this thing. We'll wait here foryou. "

Moving out of the zone of the late demonstration, Private Smith learnedthe whereabouts of the home of a Constable. 

"What's wanted?" asked the Constable, responding like a normal burgherto Smith's knock at his door. 

"Officer of State Police, " answered Smith. "I have a man under arrestand want to put him in the lock-up. Will you get me the keys?"

"Sure. I'll come right down and go along with you myself. Just give me ajiffy to get on my trousers and boots, " cried the Constable, clearlyglad of a share in the adventure. 

In a moment the borough official was at the Trooper's side, talkingeagerly as they moved toward the place where the party waited. 

"So, he's a highwayman, is he? Good! and a burglar, too, and acattle-thief! Good work! And you've got him right up the street, readyto jail! Well, I'll be switched. Now, what might his name be? IsraelDrake? _Not Israel Drake!_ Oh, my God!"

The Constable had stopped in his tracks like a man struck paralytic. 

"No, stranger, " he quavered. "I reckon I--I--I won't go no further withyou just now. Here, I'll give you the keys. You can use 'em yourself:These here's for the doors. This bunch is for the cells. _Good_-night toyou. I'll be getting back home!"

By the first train next morning the Troopers, conveying their prisoner, left the village for the County Town. As they deposited Drake in thesafe-keeping of the County Jail and were about to depart, he seemedburdened with an impulse to speak, yet said nothing. Then, as the threeofficers were leaving the room, he leaned over and touched Merryfield onthe shoulder. 

"Shake!" he growled, offering his unwounded hand. 

Merryfield "shook" cheerfully, with his own remaining sound member. 

"I'm plumb sorry to see ye go, and that's a fact, " growled the outlaw. "Because--well, because you're the only _man_ that ever tried to arrestme. "

KATHERINE MAYO

Miss Katherine Mayo comes of Mayflower stock, but her birthplace wasRidgway, Pennsylvania. She was educated in private schools at Boston andCambridge, Mass. Her earliest literary work to appear in print was aseries of articles describing travels in Norway, followed by anotherseries on Colonial American topics, written for the New York _EveningPost_. Later, during a residence in Dutch Guiana, South America, shewrote for the _Atlantic Monthly_ some interesting sketches of thenatives of Surinam. After this came three years wholly devoted tohistoric research. The work, however, that first attracted wideattention was a history of the Pennsylvania State Police, published in1917, under the title of _Justice To All_. 

This history gives the complete story of the famous Mounted Police ofPennsylvania, illustrated with a mass of accurate narrative andre-enforced with statistics. The occasion of its writing was a personalexperience--the cold-blooded murder of Sam Howell, a fine young Americanworkingman, a carpenter by trade, near Miss Mayo's country home in NewYork. The circumstances of this murder could not have been moreskilfully arranged had they been specially designed to illustrate theweakness and folly of the ancient, out-grown engine to which most statesin the Union, even yet, look for the enforcement of their laws in ruralparts. Sam Howell, carrying the pay roll on pay-day morning, gave hislife for his honor as gallantly as any soldier in any war. He was shotdown, at arm's length range, by four highway men, to whom, thoughhimself unarmed, he would not surrender his trust. Sheriff, deputysheriffs, constables, and some seventy-five fellow laborers available assheriff's posse spent hours within a few hundred feet of the littlewood in which the four murderers were known to be hiding, but no arrestwas made and the murderers are to-day still at large. 

"You will have forgotten all this in a month's time, " said Howell'sfellow-workmen an hour after the tragedy, to Miss Mayo and her friendMiss Newell, owner of the estate, on the scene. "Sam was only a laboringman, like ourselves. We, none of us, have any protection when we work incountry parts. "

The remark sounded bitter indeed. But investigation proved it, inprinciple, only too true. Sam Howell had not been the first, by manyhundreds, to give his life because the State had no real means to makeher law revered. And punishment for such crimes had been rare. SamHowell, however, was not to be forgotten, neither was his sacrifice tobe vain. From his blood, shed unseen, in the obscurity of a quietcountry lane, was to spring a great movement, taking effect first in thestate in which he died, and spreading through the Union. 

At that time Pennsylvania was the only state of all the forty-seven thathad met its just obligations to protect all its people under its laws. Pennsylvania's State Police had been for ten years a body of defendersof justice, "without fear and without reproach". The honest people ofthe State had recorded its deeds in a long memory of noble service. But, never stooping to advertise itself, never hesitating to incur the enmityof evildoers, it had had many traducers and no historian. There wasnothing in print to which the people of other states might turn forknowledge of the accomplishment of the sister commonwealth. 

So, in order that the facts might be conveniently available for everyAmerican citizen to study from "A" to "Z" and thus to decideintelligently for himself where he wanted his own state to stand, in thematter of fair and full protection to all people, Miss Mayo went toPennsylvania and embarked on an exhaustive analysis of the workings ofthe Pennsylvania State Police Force, viewed from the standpoint of allparts of the community. Ex-President Roosevelt wrote the preface for_Justice To All_, the book in which the fruits of this study werefinally embodied, and, in the meantime, Miss Newell devoted all herenergies to the development of an active and aggressive state-widemovement for a State Police. _Justice To All_, in this campaign waswidely used as a source of authority on which to base the arguments forthe case. And in 1917 came Sam Howell's triumph, the passage of the Actcreating the Department of New York State Police, now popularly called"the State Troopers". 

In the course of collecting the material for this book, Miss Mayogathered a mass of facts much greater than one volume could properlycontain. From this she later took fifteen adventurous stories of actualservice in the Pennsylvania Force, of which some, including "IsraelDrake" appeared in the _Saturday Evening Post_, while others came outsimultaneously in the _Atlantic Monthly_ and in the _Outlook_. All werelater collected in a volume called _The Standard Bearers_, which metwith a very cordial reception by readers and critics. 

During the latter part of the World War, Miss Mayo was in Franceinvestigating the war-work of the Y. M. C. A. Her experiences therefurnished material for a book from which advance pages appeared in the_Outlook_ in the form of separate stories, "Billy's Hut, " "The Colonel'sLady" and others. The purpose of this book was to determine, as closelyas possible, the real values, whatever those might be, of the workactually accomplished by the Overseas Y, and to lay the plain truthwithout bias or color, before the American people. 

IN THE PHILIPPINES

_When the Philippine Islands passed from the possession of Spain tothat of the United States, there was a change in more than the flag. Spain had sent soldiers and tax-gatherers to the islands; Uncle Sam sentroad-builders and school teachers. One of these school teachers was alsoa newspaper man; and in a book called_ CAYBIGAN _he gave a series ofvivid pictures of how the coming generation of Filipinos are taking thefirst step towards Americanization. _

THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPH OF ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS

BY

JAMES HOPPER

_I--Face to Face with the Foe_

Returning to his own town after a morning spent in "working up" theattendance of one of his far and recalcitrant barrio-schools, theMaestro of Balangilang was swaying with relaxed muscle and half-closedeyes to the allegretto trot of his little native pony, when he pulled upwith a start, wide awake and all his senses on the alert. Through hissomnolence, at first in a low hum, but fast rising in a fiendishcrescendo, there had come a buzzing sound, much like that of one of thesaw-mills of his California forests, and now, as he sat in the saddle, erect and tense, the thing ripped the air in ragged tear, shriekedvibrating into his ear, and finished its course along his spine indelicious irritation. 

"Oh, where am I?" murmured the Maestro, blinking; but between blinks hecaught the flashing green of the palay fields and knew that he was farfrom the saw-mills of the Golden State. So he raised his nose to heavenand there, afloat above him in the serene blue, was the explanation. Itwas a kite, a great locust-shaped kite, darting and swooping in the hotmonsoon, and from it, dropping plumb, came the abominable clamor. 

"Aha!" exclaimed the Maestro, pointing accusingly at the thin linevaguely visible against the sky-line in a diagonal running from the kiteabove him ahead to a point in the road. "Aha! there's something at theend of that; there's Attendance at the end of that!"

With which significant remark he leaned forward in the saddle, bringinghis switch down with a whizz behind him. The pony gave three rabbitleaps and then settled down to his drumming little trot. As theyadvanced the line overhead dropped gradually. Finally the Maestro had toswerve the horse aside to save his helmet. He pulled up to a walk, and afew yards further came to the spot where string met earth in theexpected Attendance. 

The Attendance was sitting on the ground, his legs spread before him inan angle of forty-five degrees, each foot arched in a secure grip of abunch of cogon grass. These legs were bare as far up as they went, and, in fact, no trace of clothing was reached until the eye met the lowerfringe of an indescribable undershirt modestly veiling the upper half ofa rotund little paunch; an indescribable undershirt, truly, forobservation could not reach the thing itself, but only the dirtincrusting it so that it hung together, rigid as a knight's ironcorslet, in spite of monstrous tears and rents. Between the teeth of theAttendance was a long, thick cheroot, wound about with hemp fiber, atwhich he pulled with rounded mouth. Hitched around his right wrist wasthe kite string, and between his legs a stick spindled with an extrahundred yards. At intervals he hauled hand-over-hand upon the taut line, and then the landscape vibrated to the buzz-saw song which had socompellingly recalled the Maestro to his eternal pursuit. 

As the shadow of the horse fell upon him, the Attendance brought hiseyes down from their heavenly contemplation, and fixed them upon therider. A tremor of dismay, mastered as soon as born, flitted over him;then, silently, with careful suppression of all signs of haste, hereached for a big stone with his little yellow paw, then for a sticklying farther off. Using the stone as a hammer, he drove the stick intothe ground with deliberate stroke, wound the string around it withtender solicitude, and then, everything being secure, just as theMaestro was beginning his usual embarrassing question:

"Why are you not at school, eh?"

He drew up his feet beneath him, straightened up like a jack-in-a-box, took a hop-skip-jump, and with a flourish of golden heels, floppedhead-first into the roadside ditch's rank luxuriance. 

"The little devil!" exclaimed the disconcerted Maestro. He dismountedand, leading his horse, walked up to the side of the ditch. It was fullof the water of the last baguio. From the edge of the cane-field on theother side there cascaded down the bank a mad vegetation; it carpetedthe sides, arched itself above in a vault, and inside this recess thewater was rotting, green-scummed; and a powerful fermentation filled thenostrils with hot fever-smells. In the center of the ditch the broad, flat head of a caribao emerged slightly above the water; the floatinglilies made an incongruous wreath about the great horns and thebeatifically-shut eyes, and the thick, humid nose exhaled ecstasy inshuddering ripplets over the calm surface. 

Filled with a vague sense of the ridiculous, the Maestro peered into thedarkness. "The little devil!" he murmured. "He's somewhere in here; buthow am I to get him, I'd like to know. Do you see him, eh, Mathusalem?"he asked of the stolid beast soaking there in bliss. 

Whether in answer to this challenge or to some other irritant, theanimal slowly opened one eye and ponderously let it fall shut again inwhat, to the heated imagination of the Maestro, seemed a patronizingwink. Its head slid quietly along the water; puffs of ooze rose frombelow and spread on the surface. Then, in the silence there rose asignificant sound--a soft, repeated snapping of the tongue:

"Cluck, cluck. "

"Aha!" shouted the Maestro triumphantly to his invisible audience. "Iknow where you are, you scamp; right behind the caribao; come out ofthere, _pronto, dale-dale_!"

But his enthusiasm was of short duration. To the commandingtongue-click the caribao had stopped dead-still, and a silence heavywith defiance met the too-soon exultant cries. An insect in the foliagebegan a creaking call, and then all the creatures of humidity hiddenthere among this fermenting vegetation joined in mocking chorus. 

The Maestro felt a vague blush welling up from the innermost recesses ofhis being. 

"I'm going to get that kid, " he muttered darkly, "if I have to waittill--the coming of Common Sense to the Manila office! By gum, he's theStruggle for Attendance personified!"

He sat down on the bank and waited. This did not prove interesting. Theanimals of the ditch creaked on; the caribao bubbled up the water withhis deep content; above, the abandoned kite went through strangeacrobatics and wailed as if in pain. The Maestro dipped his hand intothe water; it was lukewarm. "No hope of a freeze-out, " he murmuredpensively. 

Behind, the pony began to pull at the reins. 

"Yes, little horse, I'm tired, too. Well, " he said apologetically, "Ihate to get energetic, but there are circumstances which----"

The end of his sentence was lost, for he had whisked out the big Colt'sdissuader of ladrones, that hung on his belt, and was firing. The sixshots went off like a bunch of fire-crackers, but far from at random, for a regular circle boiled up around the dozing caribao. The disturbedanimal snorted, and again a discreet "cluck-cluck" rose in the sudden, astounded silence. 

"This, " said the Maestro, as he calmly introduced fresh cartridges intothe chambers of his smoking weapon, "is what might be called anapplication of western solutions to eastern difficulties. "

Again he brought his revolver down, but he raised it without shootingand replaced it in its holster. From beneath the caribao's rotund belly, below the surface, an indistinct form shot out; cleaving the water likea polliwog it glided for the bank, and then a black, round head emergedat the feet of the Maestro. 

"All right, bub; we'll go to school now, " said the latter, nodding tothe dripping figure as it rose before him. 

He lifted the sullen brownie and straddled him forward of the saddle, then proceeded to mount himself, when the Capture began to displaymarked agitation. He squirmed and twisted, turned his head back and up, and finally a grunt escaped him. 

"El volador. "

"The kite, to be sure; we mustn't forget the kite, " acquiesced theMaestro graciously. He pulled up the anchoring stick and laboriously, beneath the hostilely critical eye of the Capture, he hauled in the linetill the screeching, resisting flying-machine was brought to earth. Thenhe vaulted into the saddle. 

The double weight was a little too much for the pony; so it was at adignified walk that the Maestro, his naked, dripping, muddy and stilldefiant prisoner a-straddle in front of him, the captured kite passedover his left arm like a knightly shield, made his triumphant entry intothe pueblo. 

_II--Heroism and Reverses_

When Maestro Pablo rode down Rizal-y-Washington Street to theschoolhouse with his oozing, dripping prize between his arms, the kite, like a knightly escutcheon against his left side, he found that in spiteof his efforts at preserving a modest, self-deprecatory bearing, hisspine would stiffen and his nose point upward in the unconsciousmanifestations of an internal feeling that there was in his attitudesomething picturesquely heroic. Not since walking down the Californiacampus one morning after the big game won three minutes before blowingof the final whistle, by his fifty-yard run-in of a punt, had he beenin that posture--at once pleasant and difficult--in which one's vitalconcern is to wear an humility sufficiently convincing to obtain fromfriends forgiveness for the crime of being great. 

A series of incidents immediately following, however, made the thingquite easy. 

Upon bringing the new recruit into the schoolhouse, to the perfidiouslyexpressed delight of the already incorporated, the Maestro called hisnative assistant to obtain the information necessary to a fullmatriculation. At the first question the inquisition came to adead-lock. The boy did not know his name. 

"In Spanish times, " the Assistant suggested modestly, "we called them"de los Reyes" when the father was of the army, and "de la Cruz" whenthe father was of the church; but now, we can never know _what_ it is. "

The Maestro dashed to a solution. "All right, " he said cheerily. "Icaught him; guess I can give him a name. Call him--Isidro de losMaestros. "

And thus it was that the urchin went down on the school records, and onthe records of life afterward. 

Now, well pleased with himself, the Maestro, as is the wont of men insuch state, sought for further enjoyment. 

"Ask him, " he said teasingly, pointing with his chin at thenewly-baptized but still unregenerate little savage, "why he came out ofthe ditch. "

"He says he was afraid that you would steal the kite, " answered theAssistant, after some linguistic sparring. 

"Eh?" ejaculated the surprised Maestro. 

And in his mind there framed a picture of himself riding along the roadwith a string between his fingers; and, following in the upper layers ofair, a buzzing kite; and, down in the dust of the highway, an urchintrudging wistfully after the kite, drawn on irresistibly, in spite ofhis better judgment, on and on, horrified but fascinated, up to theyawning school-door. 

It would have been the better way. "I ought to go and soak my head, "murmured the Maestro pensively. 

This was check number one, but others came in quick succession. 

For the morning after this incident the Maestro did not find Isidroamong the weird, wild crowd gathered into the annex (a transformed sugarstorehouse) by the last raid of the Municipal Police. 

Neither was Isidro there the next day, nor the next. And it was not tilla week had passed that the Maestro discovered, with an inward blush ofshame, that his much-longed-for pupil was living in the little hutbehind his own house. There would have been nothing shameful in theoverlooking--there were seventeen other persons sharing the sameabode--were it not that the nipa front of this human hive had been blownaway by the last baguio, leaving an unobstructed view of the interior, if it might be called such. As it was, the Municipal Police wasmobilized at the urgent behest of the Maestro. Its "cabo, " flanked bytwo privates armed with old German needle-guns, besieged the home, andafter an interesting game of hide-and-go-seek, Isidro was finally caughtby one arm and one ear, and ceremoniously marched to school. And therethe Maestro asked him why he had not been attending. 

"No hay pantalones"--there are no pants--Isidro answered, dropping hiseyes modestly to the ground. 

This was check number two, and unmistakably so, for was it not a factthat a civil commission, overzealous in its civilizing ardor, had passeda law commanding that every one should wear, when in public, "at leastone garment, preferably trousers?"

Following this, and an unsuccessful plea upon the town tailor who was ona three weeks' vacation on account of the death of a fourth cousin, theMaestro shut himself up a whole day with Isidro in his little nipahouse; and behind the closely-shut shutters engaged in some mysterioustoil. When they emerged again the next morning, Isidro wended his way tothe school at the end of the Maestro's arm, trousered!

The trousers, it must be said, had a certain cachet of distinction. Theywere made of calico-print, with a design of little black skullssprinkled over a yellow background. Some parts hung flat and limp as ifupon a scarecrow; others pulsed, like a fire-hose in action, with thepressure of flesh compressed beneath, while at other points they bulgedpneumatically in little foot-balls. The right leg dropped to the ankle;the left stopped discouraged, a few inches below the knee. The seamslooked like the putty mountain chains of the geography class. As theMaestro strode along he threw rapid glances at his handiwork, and it wasplain that the emotions that moved him were somewhat mixed in character. His face showed traces of a puzzled diffidence, as that of a man who hascome in sack-coat to a full-dress function; but after all it wassatisfaction that predominated, for after this heroic effort he haddecided that Victory had at last perched upon his banners. 

And it really looked so for a time. Isidro stayed at school at leastduring that first day of his trousered life. For when the Maestro, laterin the forenoon paid a visit to the annex, he found the Assistant incharge standing disconcerted before the urchin who, with eyes indignantand hair perpendicular upon the top of his head, was evidently holdingto his side of the argument with his customary energy. 

Isidro was trouserless. Sitting rigid upon his bench, holding on withboth hands as if in fear of being removed, he dangled naked legs to thesight of who might look. 

"Que barbaridad!" murmured the Assistant in limp dejection. 

But Isidro threw at him a look of black hatred. This became a tense, silent plea for justice as it moved up for a moment to the Maestro'sface, and then it settled back upon its first object in frigidaccusation. 

"Where are your trousers, Isidro?" asked the Maestro. 

Isidro relaxed his convulsive grasp of the bench with one hand, cantedhimself slightly to one side just long enough to give an instantaneousview of the trousers, neatly folded and spread between what he wassitting with and what he was sitting on, then swung back with thesuddenness of a kodak-shutter, seized his seat with new determination, and looked eloquent justification at the Maestro. 

"Why will you not wear them?" asked the latter. 

"He says he will not get them dirty, " said the Assistant, interpretingthe answer. 

"Tell him when they are dirty he can go down to the river and washthem, " said the Maestro. 

Isidro pondered over the suggestion for two silent minutes. The prospectof a day spent splashing in the lukewarm waters of the Ilog he finallyput down as not at all detestable, and getting up to his feet:

"I will put them on, " he said gravely. 

Which he did on the moment, with an absence of hesitation as to whichwas front and which was back, very flattering to the Maestro. 

That Isidro persevered during the next week, the Maestro also came toknow. For now regularly every evening as he smoked and lounged upon hislong, cane chair, trying to persuade his tired body against all laws ofphysics to give up a little of its heat to a circumambient atmosphere oftemperature equally enthusiastic; as he watched among the rafters of theroof the snakes swallowing the rats, the rats devouring the lizards, thelizards snapping up the spiders, the spiders snaring the flies ineloquent representation of the life struggle, his studied passivenesswould be broken by strange sounds from the dilapidated hut at the backof his house. A voice, imitative of that of the Third Assistant whotaught the annex, hurled forth questions, which were immediatelyanswered by another voice, curiously like that of Isidro. 

Fiercely: "Du yu ssee dde hhett?"

Breathlessly: "Yiss I ssee dde hhett. "

Ferociously: "Show me dde hhett. "

Eagerly: "Here are dde hhett. "

Thunderously: "Gif me dde hhett. "

Exultantly: "I gif yu dde hhett. "

Then the Maestro would step to the window and look into the hut fromwhich came this Socratic dialogue. And on this wall-less platform whichlooked much like a primitive stage, a singular action was unrollingitself in the smoky glimmer of a two-cent lamp. The Third Assistant wasnot there at all; but Isidro was the Third Assistant. And the pupil wasnot Isidro, but the witless old man who was one of the many sharers ofthe abode. In the voice of the Third Assistant, Isidro was hurling outthe tremendous questions; and, as the old gentleman, who representedIsidro, opened his mouth only to drule betel-juice, it was Isidro who, in Isidro's voice, answered the questions. In his rôle as ThirdAssistant he stood with legs akimbo before the pupil, a bamboo twig inhis hand; as Isidro the pupil, he plumped down quickly upon the benchbefore responding. The sole function of the senile old man seemed thatof representing the pupil while the question was being asked, andreceiving, in that capacity, a sharp cut across the nose fromIsidro-the-Third-Assistant's switch, at which he chuckled to himself insilent glee and druled ad libitum. 

For several nights this performance went on with gradual increase ofvocabulary in teacher and pupil. But when it had reached the "Do you seethe apple-tree?" stage, it ceased to advance, marked time for a while, and then slowly but steadily began sliding back into primitivebeginnings. This engendered in the Maestro a suspicion which becamecertainty when Isidro entered the schoolhouse one morning just beforerecess, between two policemen at port arms. A rapid scrutiny of theroll-book showed that he had been absent a whole week. 

"I was at the river cleaning my trousers, " answered Isidro when put faceto face with this curious fact. 

The Maestro suggested that the precious pantaloons which, by the way, had been mysteriously embellished by a red stripe down the right leg anda green stripe down the left leg, could be cleaned in less than a week, and that Saturday and Sunday were days specially set aside in theCatechismo of the Americanos for such little family duties. 

Isidro understood, and the nightly rehearsals soon reached the stage of:

"How menny hhetts hev yu?"

"I hev _ten_ hhetts. "

Then came another arrest of development and another decline, at the endof which Isidro again making his appearance flanked by two Germanneedle-guns, caused a blush of remorse to suffuse the Maestro byexplaining with frigid gravity that his mother had given birth to alittle pickaninny-brother and that, of course, he had had to help. 

But significant events in the family did not stop there. After birth, death stepped in for its due. Isidro's relatives began to drop off inrapid sequence--each demise demanding three days of meditation inretirement--till at last the Maestro, who had had the excellent idea ofkeeping upon paper a record of these unfortunate occurrences, waslooking with stupor upon a list showing that Isidro had lost, withinthree weeks, two aunts, three grandfathers, and fivegrandmothers--which, considering that an actual count proved the houseof bereavement still able to boast of seventeen occupants, was plainlyan exaggeration. 

Following a long sermon from the Maestro in which he sought to explainto Isidro that he must always tell the truth for sundry philosophicalreasons--a statement which the First Assistant tactfully smoothed tosomething within range of credulity by translating it that one must notlie to _Americanos_, because _Americanos_ do not like it--there came aperiod of serenity. 

_III--The Triumph_

There came to the Maestro days of peace and joy. Isidro was coming toschool; Isidro was learning English. Isidro was steady, Isidro wasdocile, Isidro was positively so angelic that there was somethinguncanny about the situation. And with Isidro, other little savages werebeing pruned into the school-going stage of civilization. Helped by thepolice, they were pouring in from barrio and hacienda; the attendancewas going up by leaps and bounds, till at last a circulative reportshowed that Balangilang had passed the odious Cabancalan with its lessstrenuous school-man, and left it in the ruck by a full hundred. TheMaestro was triumphant; his chest had gained two inches in expansion. When he met Isidro at recess, playing cibay, he murmured softly: "Youlittle devil; you were Attendance personified, and I've got you now. " Atwhich Isidro, pausing in the act of throwing a shell with the top of hishead at another shell on the ground, looked up beneath long lashes in asmile absolutely seraphic. 

In the evening, the Maestro, his heart sweet with content, stood at thewindow. These were moonlight nights; in the grassy lanes the young girlsplayed graceful Spanish games, winding like garlands to a gentle song;from the shadows of the huts came the tinkle-tinkle of serenadingguitars and yearning notes of violins wailing despairing love. AndIsidro, seated on the bamboo ladder of his house, went through anindependent performance. He sang "Good-night, Ladies, " the last songgiven to the school, sang it in soft falsetto, with languorous drawls, and never-ending organ points, over and over again, till it changedcharacter gradually, dropping into a wailing minor, an endless croonfull of obscure melancholy of a race that dies. 

"Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies; goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-ighloidies-ies-ies; goo-oo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies-ies, " herepeated and repeated, over and over again, till the Maestro's soultumbled down and down abysses of maudlin tenderness, and Isidro's chinfell upon his chest in a last drawling, sleepy note. At which he shookhimself together and began the next exercise, a recitation, all of onepiece from first to last syllable, in one high, monotonous note, like amechanical doll saying "papa-mama. "

"Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre-oh-mudder-shelook-like-a-lom-in-de-ayre-lost-night-she-was-smalleyre-on-jooslike-a-bow-boot-now-she-ees-biggerr-on-rrraon-like-an-O. "

Then a big gulp of air and again:

"Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre, ----" etc. 

An hour of this, and he skipped from the lyric to the patriotic, andthen it was:

 "I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton, I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow, I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg, Off-rridd-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo!"

By this time the Maestro was ready to go to bed, and long in the torporof the tropic night there came to him, above the hum of the mosquitoesfighting at the net, the soft, wailing croon of Isidro, back at his"Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies. "

These were days of ease and beauty to the Maestro, and he enjoyed themthe more when a new problem came to give action to his resourcefulbrain. 

The thing was this: For three days there had not been one funeral inBalangilang. 

In other climes, in other towns, this might have been a source ofcongratulation, perhaps, but not in Balangilang. There were rumors ofcholera in the towns to the north, and the Maestro, as president of theBoard of Health, was on the watch for it. Five deaths a day, experiencehad taught him, was the healthy average for the town; and this suddencessation of public burials--he could not believe that dying hadstopped--was something to make him suspicious. 

It was over this puzzling situation that he was pondering at the morningrecess, when his attention was taken from it by a singular scene. 

The "batas" of the school were flocking and pushing and jolting at thedoor of the basement which served as stable for the municipal caribao. Elbowing his way to the spot, the Maestro found Isidro at the entrance, gravely taking up an admission of five shells from those who wouldenter. Business seemed to be brisk; Isidro had already a big bandanahandkerchief bulging with the receipts which were now overflowing into agreat tao hat, obligingly loaned him by one of his admirers, as one byone, those lucky enough to have the price filed in, feverish curiosityupon their faces. 

The Maestro thought that it might be well to go in also, which he didwithout paying admission. The disappointed gate-keeper followed him. TheMaestro found himself before a little pink-and-blue tissue-paper box, frilled with paper rosettes. 

"What have you in there?" asked the Maestro. 

"My brother, " answered Isidro sweetly. 

He cast his eyes to the ground and watched his big toe drawing vaguefigures in the earth, then appealing to the First Assistant who waspresent by this time, he added in the tone of virtue which _will_ bemodest:

"Maestro Pablo does not like it when I do not come to school on accountof a funeral, so I brought him (pointing to the little box) with me. "

"Well, I'll be----" was the only comment the Maestro found adequate atthe moment. 

"It is my little pickaninny-brother, " went on Isidro, becoming alive tothe fact that he was a center of interest, "and he died last night ofthe great sickness. "

"The great what?" ejaculated the Maestro who had caught a few words. 

"The great sickness, " explained the Assistant. "That is the name bywhich these ignorant people call the cholera. "

For the next two hours the Maestro was very busy. 

Firstly he gathered the "batas" who had been rich enough to attendIsidro's little show and locked them up--with the impresario himself--inthe little town-jail close by. Then, after a vivid exhortation upon thebeauties of boiling water and reporting disease, he dismissed the schoolfor an indefinite period. After which, impressing the two townprisoners, now temporarily out of home, he shouldered Isidro's prettybox, tramped to the cemetery and directed the digging of a grave sixfeet deep. When the earth had been scraped back upon the lonely littleobject, he returned to town and transferred the awe-stricken playgoersto his own house, where a strenuous performance took place. 

Tolio, his boy, built a most tremendous fire outside and set upon it allthe pots and pans and caldrons and cans of his kitchen arsenal, filledwith water. When these began to gurgle and steam, the Maestro sethimself to stripping the horrified bunch in his room; one by one hethrew the garments out of the window to Tolio who, catching them, stuffed them into the receptacles, poking down their bulging protestwith a big stick. Then the Maestro mixed an awful brew in an oldoil-can, and taking the brush which was commonly used to sleek up hislittle pony, he dipped it generously into the pungent stuff and began anenergetic scrubbing of his now absolutely panic-stricken wards. When hehad done this to his satisfaction and thoroughly to their discontent, helet them put on their still steaming garments and they slid out of thehouse, aseptic as hospitals. 

Isidro he kept longer. He lingered over him with loving and strenuouscare, and after he had him externally clean, proceeded to dose himinternally from a little red bottle. Isidro took everything--theterrific scrubbing, the exaggerated dosing, the ruinous treatment of hispantaloons--with wonder-eyed serenity. 

When all this was finished the Maestro took the urchin into thedining-room and, seating him on his best bamboo chair, he courteouslyoffered him a fine, dark perfecto. 

The next instant he was suffused with the light of a new revelation. For, stretching out his hard little claw to receive the gift, the littleman had shot at him a glance so mild, so wistful, so brown-eyed, filledwith such mixed admiration, trust, and appeal, that a queer softness hadrisen in the Maestro from somewhere down in the regions of his heel, upand up, quietly, like the mercury in the thermometer, till it had flowedthrough his whole body and stood still, its high-water mark a littlelump in his throat. 

"Why, Lord bless us-ones, Isidro, " said the Maestro quietly. "We're onlya child after all; mere baby, my man. And don't we like to go toschool?"

"Señor Pablo, " asked the boy, looking up softly into the Maestro's stillperspiring visage, "Señor Pablo, is it true that there will be no schoolbecause of the great sickness?"

"Yes, it is true, " answered the Maestro. "No school for a long, longtime. "

Then Isidro's mouth began to twitch queerly, and suddenly throwinghimself full-length upon the floor, he hurled out from somewhere withinhim a long, tremulous wail. 

JAMES MERLE HOPPER

James Merle Hopper was born in Paris, France. His father was American, his mother French; their son James was born July 23, 1876. In 1887 hisparents came to America, and settled in California. James Hopperattended the University of California, graduating in 1898. He is stillremembered there as one of the grittiest football players who everplayed on the 'Varsity team. Then came a course in the law school ofthat university, and admission to the California bar in 1900. All thisreads like the biography of a lawyer: so did the early life of JamesRussell Lowell, and of Oliver Wendell Holmes: they were all admitted tothe bar, but they did not become lawyers. James Hopper had done somenewspaper work for San Francisco papers while he was in law school, andthe love of writing had taken hold of him. In the meantime he hadmarried Miss Mattie E. Leonard, and as literature did not yet provide ameans of support, he became an instructor in French at the University ofCalifornia. 

With the close of the Spanish-American War came the call for thousandsof Americans to go to the Philippines as schoolmasters. This appealed tohim, and he spent the years 1902-03 in the work that Kipling thusdescribes in "The White Man's Burden":

 To wait in heavy harness On fluttered folk and wild-- Your new-caught sullen peoples, Half devil and half child. 

His experiences here furnished the material for a group of short storiesdealing picturesquely with the Filipinos in their first contact withAmerican civilization. These were published in _McClure's_, andafterwards collected in book form under the title _Caybigan_. 

In 1903 James Hopper returned to the United States, and for a time wason the editorial staff of _McClure's_. Later in collaboration with FredR. Bechdolt he wrote a remarkable book, entitled "_9009_". This is thenumber of a convict in an American prison, and the book exposes thesystem of spying, of treachery, of betrayal, that a convict mustidentify himself with in order to become a "trusty. " His next book was acollege story, _The Freshman_. This was followed by a volume of shortstories, _What Happened in the Night_. These are stories of child life, but intended for older readers; they are very successful in reproducingthe imaginative world in which children live. In 1915 and 1916 he actedas a war correspondent for _Collier's_, first with the American troopsin Mexico in pursuit of Villa, and later in France. His home is atCarmel, California. 

THEY WHO BRING DREAMS TO AMERICA

_"No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave ones fromthe old lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like the guiding signthat was given to the Israelites of old--a pillar of cloud by day, apillar of fire by night. " "The Citizen" is a story of a brave man whofollowed his dream over land and sea, until it brought him to America, afortunate event for him and for us. _

THE CITIZEN

BY

JAMES FRANCIS DWYER

The President of the United States was speaking. His audience comprisedtwo thousand foreign-born men who had just been admitted to citizenship. They listened intently, their faces, aglow with the light of a new-bornpatriotism, upturned to the calm, intellectual face of the first citizenof the country they now claimed as their own. 

Here and there among the newly-made citizens were wives and children. The women were proud of their men. They looked at them from time totime, their faces showing pride and awe. 

One little woman, sitting immediately in front of the President, heldthe hand of a big, muscular man and stroked it softly. The big man waslooking at the speaker with great blue eyes that were the eyes of adreamer. 

The President's words came clear and distinct:

_You were drawn across the ocean by some beckoning finger of hope, bysome belief, by some vision of a new kind of justice, by someexpectation of a better kind of life. You dreamed dreams of thiscountry, and I hope you brought the dreams with you. A man enriches thecountry to which he brings dreams, and you who have brought them haveenriched America. _

The big man made a curious choking noise and his wife breathed a soft"Hush!" The giant was strangely affected. 

The President continued:

_No doubt you have been disappointed in some of us, but remember this, if we have grown at all poor in the ideal, you brought some of it withyou. A man does not go out to seek the thing that is not in him. A mandoes not hope for the thing that he does not believe in, and if some ofus have forgotten what America believed in, you at any rate imported inyour own hearts a renewal of the belief. Each of you, I am sure, broughta dream, a glorious, shining dream, a dream worth more than gold orsilver, and that is the reason that I, for one, make you welcome. _

The big man's eyes were fixed. His wife shook him gently, but he did notheed her. He was looking through the presidential rostrum, through thebig buildings behind it, looking out over leagues of space to asnow-swept village that huddled on an island in the Beresina, theswift-flowing tributary of the mighty Dnieper, an island that lookedlike a black bone stuck tight in the maw of the stream. 

It was in the little village on the Beresina that the Dream came to IvanBerloff, Big Ivan of the Bridge. 

The Dream came in the spring. All great dreams come in the spring, andthe Spring Maiden who brought Big Ivan's Dream was more than ordinarilybeautiful. She swept up the Beresina, trailing wondrous draperies ofvivid green. Her feet touched the snow-hardened ground, and armies oflittle white and blue flowers sprang up in her footsteps. Soft breezesescorted her, velvety breezes that carried the aromas of the far-offplaces from which they came, places far to the southward, and moredistant towns beyond the Black Sea whose people were not under the swayof the Great Czar. 

The father of Big Ivan, who had fought under Prince Menshikov at Almafifty-five years before, hobbled out to see the sunbeams eat up the snowhummocks that hid in the shady places, and he told his son it was themost wonderful spring he had ever seen. 

"The little breezes are hot and sweet, " he said, sniffing hungrily withhis face turned toward the south. "I know them, Ivan! I know them! Theyhave the spice odor that I sniffed on the winds that came to us when welay in the trenches at Balaklava. Praise God for the warmth!"

And that day the Dream came to Big Ivan as he plowed. It was a wonderdream. It sprang into his brain as he walked behind the plow, and for afew minutes he quivered as the big bridge quivers when the Beresinasends her ice squadrons to hammer the arches. It made his heart poundmightily, and his lips and throat became very dry. 

Big Ivan stopped at the end of the furrow and tried to discover what hadbrought the Dream. Where had it come from? Why had it clutched him sosuddenly? Was he the only man in the village to whom it had come?

Like his father, he sniffed the sweet-smelling breezes. He thrust hisgreat hands into the sunbeams. He reached down and plucked one of abunch of white flowers that had sprung up overnight. The Dream was bornof the breezes and the sunshine and the spring flowers. It came fromthem and it had sprung into his mind because he was young and strong. Heknew! It couldn't come to his father or Donkov, the tailor, or Poborino, the smith. They were old and weak, and Ivan's dream was one that calledfor youth and strength. 

"Ay, for youth and strength, " he muttered as he gripped the plow. "And Ihave it!"

That evening Big Ivan of the Bridge spoke to his wife, Anna, a littlewoman, who had a sweet face and a wealth of fair hair. 

"Wife, we are going away from here, " he said. 

"Where are we going, Ivan?" she asked. 

"Where do you think, Anna?" he said, looking down at her as she stood byhis side. 

"To Bobruisk, " she murmured. 

"No. "

"Farther?"

"Ay, a long way farther. "

Fear sprang into her soft eyes. Bobruisk was eighty-nine versts away, yet Ivan said they were going farther. 

"We--we are not going to Minsk?" she cried. 

"Aye, and beyond Minsk!"

"Ivan, tell me!" she gasped. "Tell me where we are going!"

"We are going to America. "

"_To America?_"

"Yes, to America!"

Big Ivan of the Bridge lifted up his voice when he cried out the words"To America, " and then a sudden fear sprang upon him as those wordsdashed through the little window out into the darkness of the villagestreet. Was he mad? America was 8, 000 versts away! It was far across theocean, a place that was only a name to him, a place where he knew noone. He wondered in the strange little silence that followed his wordsif the crippled son of Poborino, the smith, had heard him. The cripplewould jeer at him if the night wind had carried the words to his ear. 

Anna remained staring at her big husband for a few minutes, then she satdown quietly at his side. There was a strange look in his big blue eyes, the look of a man to whom has come a vision, the look which came intothe eyes of those shepherds of Judea long, long ago. 

"What is it, Ivan?" she murmured softly, patting his big hand. "Tellme. "

And Big Ivan of the Bridge, slow of tongue, told of the Dream. To no oneelse would he have told it. Anna understood. She had a way of pattinghis hands and saying soft things when his tongue could not find words toexpress his thoughts. 

Ivan told how the Dream had come to him as he plowed. He told her how ithad sprung upon him, a wonderful dream born of the soft breezes, of thesunshine, of the sweet smell of the upturned sod and of his ownstrength. "It wouldn't come to weak men, " he said, baring an arm thatshowed great snaky muscles rippling beneath the clear skin. "It is adream that comes only to those who are strong and those who want--whowant something that they haven't got. " Then in a lower voice he said:"What is it that we want, Anna?"

The little wife looked out into the darkness with fear-filled eyes. There were spies even there in that little village on the Beresina, andit was dangerous to say words that might be construed into a reflectionon the Government. But she answered Ivan. She stooped and whispered oneword into his ear, and he slapped his thigh with his big hand. 

"Ay, " he cried. "That is what we want! You and I and millions like uswant it, and over there, Anna, over there we will get it. It is thecountry where a muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!"

Anna stood up, took a small earthenware jar from a side shelf, dusted itcarefully and placed it upon the mantel. From a knotted cloth about herneck she took a ruble and dropped the coin into the jar. Big Ivan lookedat her curiously. 

"It is to make legs for your Dream, " she explained. "It is many verststo America, and one rides on rubles. "

"You are a good wife, " he said. "I was afraid that you might laugh atme. "

"It is a great dream, " she murmured. "Come, we will go to sleep. "

The Dream maddened Ivan during the days that followed. It pounded withinhis brain as he followed the plow. It bred a discontent that made himhate the little village, the swift-flowing Beresina and the graystretches that ran toward Mogilev. He wanted to be moving, but Anna hadsaid that one rode on rubles, and rubles were hard to find. 

And in some mysterious way the village became aware of the secret. Donkov, the tailor, discovered it. Donkov lived in one-half of thecottage occupied by Ivan and Anna, and Donkov had long ears. The tailorspread the news, and Poborino, the smith, and Yanansk, the baker, wouldjeer at Ivan as he passed. 

"When are you going to America?" they would ask. 

"Soon, " Ivan would answer. 

"Take us with you!" they would cry in chorus. 

"It is no place for cowards, " Ivan would answer. "It is a long way, andonly brave men can make the journey. "

"Are you brave?" the baker screamed one day as he went by. 

"I am brave enough to want liberty!" cried Ivan angrily. "I am braveenough to want----"

"Be careful! Be careful!" interrupted the smith. "A long tongue hasgiven many a man a train journey that he never expected. "

That night Ivan and Anna counted the rubles in the earthenware pot. Thegiant looked down at his wife with a gloomy face, but she smiled andpatted his hand. 

"It is slow work, " he said. 

"We must be patient, " she answered. "You have the Dream. "

"Ay, " he said. "I have the Dream. "

Through the hot, languorous summertime the Dream grew within the brainof Big Ivan. He saw visions in the smoky haze that hung above theBeresina. At times he would stand, hoe in hand, and look toward thewest, the wonderful west into which the sun slipped down each eveninglike a coin dropped from the fingers of the dying day. 

Autumn came, and the fretful whining winds that came down from the northchilled the Dream. The winds whispered of the coming of the Snow King, and the river grumbled as it listened. Big Ivan kept out of the way ofPoborino, the smith, and Yanansk, the baker. The Dream was still withhim, but autumn is a bad time for dreams. 

Winter came, and the Dream weakened. It was only the earthenware potthat kept it alive, the pot into which the industrious Anna put everycoin that could be spared. Often Big Ivan would stare at the pot as hesat beside the stove. The pot was the cord which kept the Dream alive. 

"You are a good woman, Anna, " Ivan would say again and again. "It wasyou who thought of saving the rubles. "

"But it was you who dreamed, " she would answer. "Wait for the spring, husband mine. Wait. "

It was strange how the spring came to the Beresina that year. It sprangupon the flanks of winter before the Ice King had given the order toretreat into the fastnesses of the north. It swept up the river escortedby a million little breezes, and housewives opened their windows andpeered out with surprise upon their faces. A wonderful guest had come tothem and found them unprepared. 

Big Ivan of the Bridge was fixing a fence in the meadow on the morningthe Spring Maiden reached the village. For a little while he was notaware of her arrival. His mind was upon his work, but suddenly hediscovered that he was hot, and he took off his overcoat. He turned tohang the coat upon a bush, then he sniffed the air, and a puzzled lookcame upon his face. He sniffed again, hurriedly, hungrily. He drew ingreat breaths of it, and his eyes shone with a strange light. It waswonderful air. It brought life to the Dream. It rose up within him, tentimes more lusty than on the day it was born, and his limbs trembled ashe drew in the hot, scented breezes that breed the _Wanderlust_ andshorten the long trails of the world. 

Big Ivan clutched his coat and ran to the little cottage. He burstthrough the door, startling Anna, who was busy with her housework. 

"The Spring!" he cried. "_The Spring!_"

He took her arm and dragged her to the door. Standing together theysniffed the sweet breezes. In silence they listened to the song of theriver. The Beresina had changed from a whining, fretful tune into alilting, sweet song that would set the legs of lovers dancing. Annapointed to a green bud on a bush beside the door. 

"It came this minute, " she murmured. 

"Yes, " said Ivan. "The little fairies brought it there to show us thatspring has come to stay. "

Together they turned and walked to the mantel. Big Ivan took up theearthenware pot, carried it to the table, and spilled its contents uponthe well-scrubbed boards. He counted while Anna stood beside him, herfingers clutching his coarse blouse. It was a slow business, becauseIvan's big blunt fingers were not used to such work, but it was over atlast. He stacked the coins into neat piles, then he straightened himselfand turned to the woman at his side. 

"It is enough, " he said quietly. "We will go at once. If it was notenough, we would have to go because the Dream is upon me and I hate thisplace. "

"As you say, " murmured Anna. "The wife of Littin, the butcher, will buyour chairs and our bed. I spoke to her yesterday. "

Poborino, the smith; his crippled son; Yanansk, the baker; Dankov, thetailor, and a score of others were out upon the village street on themorning that Big Ivan and Anna set out. They were inclined to jeer atIvan, but something upon the face of the giant made them afraid. Hand inhand the big man and his wife walked down the street, their faces turnedtoward Bobruisk, Ivan balancing upon his head a heavy trunk that noother man in the village could have lifted. 

At the end of the street a stripling with bright eyes and yellow curlsclutched the hand of Ivan and looked into his face. 

"I know what is sending you, " he cried. 

"Ay, _you_ know, " said Ivan, looking into the eyes of the other. 

"It came to me yesterday, " murmured the stripling. "I got it from thebreezes. They are free, so are the birds and the little clouds and theriver. I wish I could go. "

"Keep your dream, " said Ivan softly. "Nurse it, for it is the dream of aman. "

Anna, who was crying softly, touched the blouse of the boy. "At the backof our cottage, near the bush that bears the red berries, a pot isburied, " she said. "Dig it up and take it home with you and when youhave a kopeck drop it in. It is a good pot. "

The stripling understood. He stooped and kissed the hand of Anna, andBig Ivan patted him upon the back. They were brother dreamers and theyunderstood each other. 

Boris Lugan has sung the song of the versts that eat up one's courage aswell as the leather of one's shoes. 

 "Versts! Versts! Scores and scores of them! Versts! Versts! A million or more of them! Dust! Dust! And the devils who play in it, Blinding us fools who forever must stay in it. "

Big Ivan and Anna faced the long versts to Bobruisk, but they were notafraid of the dust devils. They had the Dream. It made their heartslight and took the weary feeling from their feet. They were on theirway. America was a long, long journey, but they had started, and everyverst they covered lessened the number that lay between them and thePromised Land. 

"I am glad the boy spoke to us, " said Anna. 

"And I am glad, " said Ivan. "Some day he will come and eat with us inAmerica. "

They came to Bobruisk. Holding hands, they walked into it late oneafternoon. They were eighty-nine versts from the little village on theBeresina, but they were not afraid. The Dream spoke to Ivan, and his bighand held the hand of Anna. The railway ran through Bobruisk, and thatevening they stood and looked at the shining rails that went out in themoonlight like silver tongs reaching out for a low-hanging star. 

And they came face to face with the Terror that evening, the Terror thathad helped the spring breezes and the sunshine to plant the Dream in thebrain of Big Ivan. 

They were walking down a dark side street when they saw a score of menand women creep from the door of a squat, unpainted building. The littlegroup remained on the sidewalk for a minute as if uncertain about theway they should go, then from the corner of the street came a cry of"Police!" and the twenty pedestrians ran in different directions. 

It was no false alarm. Mounted police charged down the dark thoroughfareswinging their swords as they rode at the scurrying men and women whoraced for shelter. Big Ivan dragged Anna into a doorway, and towardtheir hiding place ran a young boy who, like themselves, had noconnection with the group and who merely desired to get out of harm'sway till the storm was over. 

The boy was not quick enough to escape the charge. A trooper pursuedhim, overtook him before he reached the sidewalk, and knocked him downwith a quick stroke given with the flat of his blade. His horse struckthe boy with one of his hoofs as the lad stumbled on his face. 

Big Ivan growled like an angry bear, and sprang from his hiding place. The trooper's horse had carried him on to the sidewalk, and Ivan seizedthe bridle and flung the animal on its haunches. The policeman leanedforward to strike at the giant, but Ivan of the Bridge gripped the leftleg of the horseman and tore him from the saddle. 

The horse galloped off, leaving its rider lying beside the moaning boywho was unlucky enough to be in a street where a score of students wereholding a meeting. 

Anna dragged Ivan back into the passageway. More police were chargingdown the street, and their position was a dangerous one. 

"Ivan!" she cried, "Ivan! Remember the Dream! America, Ivan! _America!_Come this way! Quick!"

With strong hands she dragged him down the passage. It opened into anarrow lane, and, holding each other's hands, they hurried toward theplace where they had taken lodgings. From far off came screams andhoarse orders, curses and the sound of galloping hoofs. The Terror wasabroad. 

Big Ivan spoke softly as they entered the little room they had taken. "He had a face like the boy to whom you gave the lucky pot, " he said. "Did you notice it in the moonlight when the trooper struck him down?"

"Yes, " she answered. "I saw. "

They left Bobruisk next morning. They rode away on a great, puffing, snorting train that terrified Anna. The engineer turned a stopcock asthey were passing the engine, and Anna screamed while Ivan nearlydropped the big trunk. The engineer grinned, but the giant looked up athim and the grin faded. Ivan of the Bridge was startled by the rush ofhot steam, but he was afraid of no man. 

The train went roaring by little villages and great pasture stretches. The real journey had begun. They began to love the powerful engine. Itwas eating up the versts at a tremendous rate. They looked at each otherfrom time to time and smiled like two children. 

They came to Minsk, the biggest town they had ever seen. They looked outfrom the car windows at the miles of wooden buildings, at the big churchof St. Catharine, and the woolen mills. Minsk would have frightened themif they hadn't had the Dream. The farther they went from the littlevillage on the Beresina the more courage the Dream gave to them. 

On and on went the train, the wheels singing the song of the road. Fellow travelers asked them where they were going. "To America, " Ivanwould answer. 

"To America?" they would cry. "May the little saints guide you. It is along way, and you will be lonely. "

"No, we shall not be lonely, " Ivan would say. 

"Ha! you are going with friends?"

"No, we have no friends, but we have something that keeps us from beinglonely. " And when Ivan would make that reply Anna would pat his hand andthe questioner would wonder if it was a charm or a holy relic that thebright-eyed couple possessed. 

They ran through Vilna, on through flat stretches of Courland to Libau, where they saw the sea. They sat and stared at it for a whole day, talking little but watching it with wide, wondering eyes. And theystared at the great ships that came rocking in from distant ports, theirsides gray with the salt from the big combers which they had battledwith. 

No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave ones from theold lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like the guiding sign thatwas given to the Israelites of old--a pillar of cloud by day, a pillarof fire by night. 

The harbormaster spoke to Ivan and Anna as they watched the restlesswaters. 

"Where are you going, children?"

"To America, " answered Ivan. 

"A long way. Three ships bound for America went down last month. "

"Our ship will not sink, " said Ivan. 

"Why?"

"Because I know it will not. "

The harbor master looked at the strange blue eyes of the giant, andspoke softly. "You have the eyes of a man who sees things, " he said. "There was a Norwegian sailor in the _White Queen_, who had eyes likeyours, and he could see death. "

"I see life!" said Ivan boldly. "A free life----"

"Hush!" said the harbor master. "Do not speak so loud. " He walkedswiftly away, but he dropped a ruble into Anna's hand as he passed herby. "For luck, " he murmured. "May the little saints look after you onthe big waters. "

They boarded the ship, and the Dream gave them a courage that surprisedthem. There were others going aboard, and Ivan and Anna felt that thoseothers were also persons who possessed dreams. She saw the dreams intheir eyes. There were Slavs, Poles, Letts, Jews, and Livonians, allbound for the land where dreams come true. They were a littleafraid--not two per cent of them had ever seen a ship before--yet theirdreams gave them courage. 

The emigrant ship was dragged from her pier by a grunting tug and wentfloundering down the Baltic Sea. Night came down, and the devils who, according to the Esthonian fishermen, live in the bottom of the Baltic, got their shoulders under the stern of the ship and tried to stand heron her head. They whipped up white combers that sprang on her flanks andtried to crush her, and the wind played a devil's lament in her rigging. Anna lay sick in the stuffy women's quarters, and Ivan could not getnear her. But he sent her messages. He told her not to mind the seadevils, to think of the Dream, the Great Dream that would become real inthe land to which they were bound. Ivan of the Bridge grew to fullstature on that first night out from Libau. The battered old craft thatcarried him slouched before the waves that swept over her decks, but hewas not afraid. Down among the million and one smells of the steerage heinduced a thin-faced Livonian to play upon a mouth organ, and Big Ivansang Paleer's "Song of Freedom" in a voice that drowned the creaking ofthe old vessel's timbers, and made the seasick ones forget theirsickness. They sat up in their berths and joined in the chorus, theireyes shining brightly in the half gloom:

 "Freedom for serf and for slave, Freedom for all men who crave Their right to be free And who hate to bend knee But to Him who this right to them gave. "

It was well that these emigrants had dreams. They wanted them. The seadevils chased the lumbering steamer. They hung to her bows and pulledher for'ard deck under emerald-green rollers. They clung to her sternand hoisted her nose till Big Ivan thought that he could touch the doorof heaven by standing on her blunt snout. Miserable, cold, ill, andsleepless, the emigrants crouched in their quarters, and to them Ivanand the thin-faced Livonian sang the "Song of Freedom. "

The emigrant ship pounded through the Cattegat, swung southward throughthe Skagerrack and the bleak North Sea. But the storm pursued her. Thebig waves snarled and bit at her, and the captain and the chief officerconsulted with each other. They decided to run into the Thames, and theharried steamer nosed her way in and anchored off Gravesend. 

An examination was made, and the agents decided to transship theemigrants. They were taken to London and thence by train to Liverpool, and Ivan and Anna sat again side by side, holding hands and smiling ateach other as the third-class emigrant train from Euston raced downthrough the green Midland counties to grimy Liverpool. 

"You are not afraid?" Ivan would say to her each time she looked at him. 

"It is a long way, but the Dream has given me much courage, " she said. 

"To-day I spoke to a Lett whose brother works in New York City, " saidthe giant. "Do you know how much money he earns each day?"

"How much?" she questioned. 

"Three rubles, and he calls the policemen by their first names. "

"You will earn five rubles, my Ivan, " she murmured. "There is no one asstrong as you. "

Once again they were herded into the bowels of a big ship that steamedaway through the fog banks of the Mersey out into the Irish Sea. Therewere more dreamers now, nine hundred of them, and Anna and Ivan weremore comfortable. And these new emigrants, English, Irish, Scotch, French, and German, knew much concerning America. Ivan was certain thathe would earn at least three rubles a day. He was very strong. 

On the deck he defeated all comers in a tug of war, and the captain ofthe ship came up to him and felt his muscles. 

"The country that lets men like you get away from it is run badly, " hesaid. "Why did you leave it?"

The interpreter translated what the captain said, and through theinterpreter Ivan answered. 

"I had a Dream, " he said, "a Dream of freedom. "

"Good, " cried the captain. "Why should a man with muscles like yourshave his face ground into the dust?"

The soul of Big Ivan grew during those days. He felt himself a man, aman who was born upright to speak his thoughts without fear. 

The ship rolled into Queenstown one bright morning, and Ivan and hisnine hundred steerage companions crowded the for'ard deck. A boy in arowboat threw a line to the deck, and after it had been fastened to astanchion he came up hand over hand. The emigrants watched himcuriously. An old woman sitting in the boat pulled off her shoes, sat ina loop of the rope, and lifted her hand as a signal to her son on deck. 

"Hey, fellers, " said the boy, "help me pull me muvver up. She wants tosell a few dozen apples, an' they won't let her up the gangway!"

Big Ivan didn't understand the words, but he guessed what the boywanted. He made one of a half dozen who gripped the rope and started topull the ancient apple woman to the deck. 

They had her halfway up the side when an undersized third officerdiscovered what they were doing. He called to a steward, and the stewardsprang to obey. 

"Turn a hose on her!" cried the officer. "Turn a hose on the old woman!"

The steward rushed for the hose. He ran with it to the side of the shipwith the intention of squirting on the old woman, who was swinging inmidair and exhorting the six men who were dragging her to the deck. 

"Pull!" she cried. "Sure, I'll give every one of ye a rosy red apple an'me blessing with it. "

The steward aimed the muzzle of the hose, and Big Ivan of the Bridge letgo of the rope and sprang at him. The fist of the great Russian went outlike a battering ram; it struck the steward between the eyes, and hedropped upon the deck. He lay like one dead, the muzzle of the hosewriggling from his limp hands. 

The third officer and the interpreter rushed at Big Ivan, who stooderect, his hands clenched. 

"Ask the big swine why he did it, " roared the officer. 

"Because he is a coward!" cried Ivan. "They wouldn't do that inAmerica!"

"What does the big brute know about America?" cried the officer. 

"Tell him I have dreamed of it, " shouted Ivan. "Tell him it is in myDream. Tell him I will kill him if he turns the water on this oldwoman. "

The apple seller was on deck then, and with the wisdom of the Celt sheunderstood. She put her lean hand upon the great head of the Russian andblessed him in Gaelic. Ivan bowed before her, then as she offered him arosy apple he led her toward Anna, a great Viking leading a withered oldwoman who walked with the grace of a duchess. 

"Please don't touch him, " she cried, turning to the officer. "We havebeen waiting for your ship for six hours, and we have only five dozenapples to sell. It's a great man he is. Sure he's as big as FinnMacCool. "

Some one pulled the steward behind a ventilator and revived him bysquirting him with water from the hose which he had tried to turn uponthe old woman. The third officer slipped quietly away. 

The Atlantic was kind to the ship that carried Ivan and Anna. Throughsunny days they sat up on deck and watched the horizon. They wanted tobe among those who would get the first glimpse of the wonderland. 

They saw it on a morning with sunshine and soft wind. Standing togetherin the bow, they looked at the smear upon the horizon, and their eyesfilled with tears. They forgot the long road to Bobruisk, the rockingjourney to Libau, the mad buckjumping boat in whose timbers the seadevils of the Baltic had bored holes. Everything unpleasant wasforgotten, because the Dream filled them with a great happiness. 

The inspectors at Ellis Island were interested in Ivan. They walkedaround him and prodded his muscles, and he smiled down upon themgood-naturedly. 

"A fine animal, " said one. "Gee, he's a new white hope! Ask him can hefight?"

An interpreter put the question, and Ivan nodded. "I have fought, " hesaid. 

"Gee!" cried the inspector. "Ask him was it for purses or what?"

"For freedom, " answered Ivan. "For freedom to stretch my legs andstraighten my neck!"

Ivan and Anna left the Government ferryboat at the Battery. They startedto walk uptown, making for the East Side, Ivan carrying the big trunkthat no other man could lift. 

It was a wonderful morning. The city was bathed in warm sunshine, andthe well-dressed men and women who crowded the sidewalks made the twoimmigrants think that it was a festival day. Ivan and Anna stared ateach other in amazement. They had never seen such dresses as those wornby the smiling women who passed them by; they had never seen suchwell-groomed men. 

"It is a feast day for certain, " said Anna. 

"They are dressed like princes and princesses, " murmured Ivan. "Thereare no poor here, Anna. None. "

Like two simple children, they walked along the streets of the City ofWonder. What a contrast it was to the gray, stupid towns where theTerror waited to spring upon the cowed people. In Bobruisk, Minsk, Vilna, and Libau the people were sullen and afraid. They walked indread, but in the City of Wonder beside the glorious Hudson every personseemed happy and contented. 

They lost their way, but they walked on, looking at the wonderful shopwindows, the roaring elevated trains, and the huge skyscrapers. Hoursafterward they found themselves in Fifth Avenue near Thirty-thirdStreet, and there the miracle happened to the two Russian immigrants. Itwas a big miracle inasmuch as it proved the Dream a truth, a greattruth. 

Ivan and Anna attempted to cross the avenue, but they became confused inthe snarl of traffic. They dodged backward and forward as the stream ofautomobiles swept by them. Anna screamed, and, in response to herscream, a traffic policeman, resplendent in a new uniform, rushed to herside. He took the arm of Anna and flung up a commanding hand. Thecharging autos halted. For five blocks north and south they jammed onthe brakes when the unexpected interruption occurred, and Big Ivangasped. 

"Don't be flurried, little woman, " said the cop. "Sure I can tame 'em byliftin' me hand. "

Anna didn't understand what he said, but she knew it was something niceby the manner in which his Irish eyes smiled down upon her. And in frontof the waiting automobiles he led her with the same care that he wouldgive to a duchess, while Ivan, carrying the big trunk, followed them, wondering much. Ivan's mind went back to Bobruisk on the night theTerror was abroad. 

The policeman led Anna to the sidewalk, patted Ivan good-naturedly uponthe shoulder, and then with a sharp whistle unloosed the waiting streamof cars that had been held up so that two Russian immigrants could crossthe avenue. 

Big Ivan of the Bridge took the trunk from his head and put it on theground. He reached out his arms and folded Anna in a great embrace. Hiseyes were wet. 

"The Dream is true!" he cried. "Did you see, Anna? We are as good asthey! This is the land where a muzhik is as good as a prince of theblood!"

The President was nearing the close of his address. Anna shook Ivan, andIvan came out of the trance which the President's words had brought uponhim. He sat up and listened intently:

_We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They see things inthe soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire of a long winter'sevening. Some of us let those great dreams die, but others nourish andprotect them, nurse them through bad days till they bring them to thesunshine and light which come always to those who sincerely hope thattheir dreams will come true. _

The President finished. For a moment he stood looking down at the facesturned up to him, and Big Ivan of the Bridge thought that the Presidentsmiled at him. Ivan seized Anna's hand and held it tight. 

"He knew of my Dream!" he cried. "He knew of it. Did you hear what hesaid about the dreams of a spring day?"

"Of course he knew, " said Anna. "He is the wisest man in America, wherethere are many wise men. Ivan, you are a citizen now. "

"And you are a citizen, Anna. "

The band started to play "My Country, 'tis of Thee, " and Ivan and Annagot to their feet. Standing side by side, holding hands, they joined inwith the others who had found after long days of journeying the blessedland where dreams come true. 

JAMES FRANCIS DWYER

Mr. Dwyer is an American by adoption, an Australian by birth. He wasborn in Camden, New South Wales, April 22, 1874; and received hiseducation in the public schools there. He entered newspaper work, and inthe capacity of a correspondent for Australian papers traveledextensively in Australia and in the South Seas, from 1898 to 1906. In1906 he made a tour through South Africa, and at the conclusion of thiswent to England. He came to America in 1907, and since that time hasmade his home in New York City. He has been a frequent contributor to_Collier's_, _Harper's Weekly_, _The American Magazine_, _The Ladies'Home Journal_, and other periodicals. He has published five books, nearly all dealing with the strange life of the far East. His firstbook, _The White Waterfall_, published in 1912, has its scene in theSouth Sea Islands. A California scientist, interested in ancientPolynesian skulls, goes to the South Seas to investigate his favoritesubject, accompanied by his two daughters. The amazing adventures theymeet there make a very interesting story. _The Spotted Panther_ is astory of adventure in Borneo. Three white men go there in search of awonderful sword of great antiquity which is in the possession of a tribeof Dyaks, the head-hunters of Borneo. There are some vivid descriptionsin the story and plenty of thrills. _The Breath of the Jungle_ is acollection of short stories, the scenes laid in the Malay Peninsula andnearby islands. They describe the strange life of these regions, andshow how it reacts in various ways upon white men who live there. _TheGreen Half Moon_ is a story of mystery and diplomatic intrigue, thescene partly in the Orient, partly in London. 

In his later work Mr. Dwyer has taken up American themes. _The Bust ofLincoln_, really a short story, deals with a young man whose proudestpossession is a bust of Lincoln that had belonged to his grandfather;the story shows how it influences his life. The story _The Citizen_ hadan interesting origin. On May 10, 1915, just after the sinking of the_Lusitania_, President Wilson went to Philadelphia to address a meetingof an unusual kind. Four thousand foreign-born men, who had just becomenaturalized citizens of our country, were to be welcomed to citizenshipby the Mayor of the city, a member of the Cabinet, and the President ofthe United States. The meeting was held in Convention Hall; more thanfifteen thousand people were present, and the event, occurring as it didat a time when every one realized that the loyalty of our people waslikely to be soon put to the test, was one of historic importance. Movedby the significance of this event, Mr. Dwyer translated it intoliterature. His story, "The Citizen, " was published in _Collier's_ inNovember, 1915. 

LIST OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES CLASSIFIED BY LOCALITY

I. THE EAST

NEW ENGLAND

_A New England Nun_; _A Humble Romance_, Mary Wilkins-Freeman. _Meadow-Grass_; _The Country Road_, Alice Brown. _A White Heron_; _The Queen's Twin_, Sarah Orne Jewett. _Pratt Portraits_; _Later Pratt Portraits_, Anna Fuller. _The Village Watch Tower_, Kate Douglas Wiggin. _The Old Home House_, Joseph C. Lincoln. _Hillsboro People_, Dorothy Canfield. _Out of Gloucester_; _The Crested Seas_, James B. Connolly. _Under the Crust_, Thomas Nelson Page. _Dumb Foxglove_, Annie T. Slosson. _Huckleberries Gathered From New England Hills_, Rose Terry Cooke. 

NEW YORK CITY

_The Four Million_; _The Voice of the City_; _The Trimmed Lamp_, O. Henry. _Van Bibber and Others_, Richard Harding Davis. _Doctor Rast_, James Oppenheim. _Toomey and Others_, Robert Shackleton. _Vignettes of Manhattan_, Brander Matthews. _The Imported Bridegroom_, Abraham Cahan. _Little Citizens_; _Little Aliens_, Myra Kelly. _The Soul of the Street_, Norman Duncan. _Wall Street Stories_, Edwin Le Fevre. _The Optimist_, Susan Faber. _Every Soul Hath Its Song_, Fannie Hurst. 

NEW JERSEY

_Hulgate of Mogador_, Sewell Ford. _Edgewater People_, Mary Wilkins-Freeman. 

PENNSYLVANIA

_Old Chester Tales_; _Doctor Lavender's People_, Margaret Deland. _Betrothal of Elypholate_, Helen R. Martin. _The Passing of Thomas_, Thomas A. Janvier. _The Standard Bearers_, Katherine Mayo. _Six Stars_, Nelson Lloyd. 

II. THE SOUTH

ALABAMA

_Alabama Sketches_, Samuel Minturn Peck. _Polished Ebony_, Octavius R. Cohen. 

ARKANSAS

_Otto the Knight_; _Knitters in the Sun_, Octave Thanet. 

FLORIDA

_Rodman the Keeper_, Constance F. Woolson. 

GEORGIA

_Georgia Scenes_, A. B. Longstreet. _Free Joe_; _Tales of the Home-Folks_, Joel Chandler Harris. _Stories of the Cherokee Hills_, Maurice Thompson. _Northern Georgia Sketches_, Will N. Harben. _His Defence_, Harry Stilwell Edwards. _Mr. Absalom Billingslea_; _Mr. Billy Downes_, Richard Malcolm Johnston. 

KENTUCKY

_Flute and Violin_; _A Kentucky Cardinal_, James Lane Allen. _In Happy Valley_, John Fox, Jr. _Back Home_; _Judge Priest and his People_, Irvin S. Cobb. _Land of Long Ago_; _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_, Eliza Calvert Hall. 

LOUISIANA

_Holly and Pizen_; _Aunt Amity's Silver Wedding_, Ruth McEnery Stuart. _Balcony Stories_; _Tales of Time and Place_, Grace King. _Old Creole Days_; _Strange True Stories of Louisiana_, George W. Cable. _Bayou Folks_, Kate Chopin. 

TENNESSEE

_In the Tennessee Mountains_; _Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains_, Charles Egbert Craddock. (Mary N. Murfree. )

VIRGINIA

_In Ole Virginia_, Thomas Nelson Page. _Virginia of Virginia_, Amelie Rives. _Colonel Carter of Cartersville_, F. Hopkinson Smith. 

NORTH CAROLINA

_North Carolina Sketches_, Mary N. Carter. 

III. THE MIDDLE WEST

INDIANA

_Dialect Sketches_, James Whitcomb Riley. 

ILLINOIS

_The Home Builders_, K. E. Harriman. 

IOWA

_Stories of a Western Town_; _The Missionary Sheriff_, Octave Thanet. _In a Little Town_, Rupert Hughes. 

KANSAS

_In Our Town_; _Stratagems and Spoils_, William Allen White. 

MISSOURI

_The Man at the Wheel_, John Hanton Carter. _Stories of a Country Doctor_, Willis King. 

MICHIGAN

_Blazed Trail Stories_, Stewart Edward White. _Mackinac and Lake Stories_, Mary Hartwell Catherwood. 

OHIO

_Folks Back Home_, Eugene Wood. 

WISCONSIN

_Main-Travelled Roads_, Hamlin Garland. _Friendship Village_; _Friendship Village Love Stories_, Zona Gale. 

IV. THE FAR WEST

ARIZONA

_Lost Borders_, Mary Austin. _Arizona Nights_, Stewart Edward White. 

ALASKA

_Love of Life_; _Son of the Wolf_, Jack London. 

CALIFORNIA

_The Cat and the Cherub_, Chester B. Fernald. _The Luck of Roaring Camp_; _Tales of the Argonauts_, Bret Harte. _The Splendid Idle Forties_, Gertrude Atherton. 

NEW MEXICO

_The King of the Broncos_, Charles F. Lummis. _Santa Fe's Partner_, Thomas A. Janvier. 

WYOMING

_Red Men and White_; _The Virginian_; _Members of the Family_, Owen Wister. _Teepee Tales_, Grace Coolidge. 

PHILIPPINE ISLANDS

_Caybigan_, James N. Hopper. 

NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE

In Greek mythology, the work of creating living things was entrusted totwo of the gods, Epimetheus and Prometheus. Epimetheus gave to thedifferent animals various powers, to the lion strength, to the birdswiftness, to the fox sagacity, and so on until all the good gifts hadbeen bestowed, and there was nothing left for man. Then Prometheusascended to heaven and brought down fire, as his gift to man. With this, man could protect himself, could forge iron to make weapons, and so intime develop the arts of civilization. In this story the "PrometheanFire" of love is the means of giving little Emmy Lou her first lesson inreading. 

 1. A test that may be applied to any story is, Does it read as if it were true? Would the persons in the story do the things they are represented as doing? Test the acts of Billy Traver in this way, and see if they are probable. 

 2. In writing stories about children, a writer must have the power to present life as a child sees it. Point out places in this story where school life is described as it appears to a new pupil. 

 3. One thing we ought to gain from our reading is a larger vocabulary. In this story there are a number of words worth adding to our stock. Define these exactly: inquisitorial; lachrymose; laconic; surreptitious; contumely. 

 Get the habit of looking up new words and writing down their meanings. 

 4. Can you write a story about a school experience?

 5. Other books containing stories of school life are:

 _Little Aliens_, Myra Kelly; _May Iverson Tackles Life_, Elizabeth Jordan; _Ten to Seventeen_, Josephine Daskam Bacon; _Closed Doors_, Margaret P. Montague. Read a story from one of these books, and compare it with this story. 

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

Central Park, New York, covers an era of more than eight hundred acres, with a zoo and several small lakes. On one of the lakes there are largeboats with a huge wooden swan on each side. Richard Harding Davislocated one of his stories here: See "Van Bibber and the Swan Boats, "in the volume called _Van Bibber and Others_. 

 1. How is this story like the preceding one? What difference in the characters? What difference in their homes?

 2. How does Myra Kelly make you feel sympathy for the little folks? In what ways have their lives been less fortunate than the lives of children in your town?

 3. What is peculiar about the talk of these children? Do they all speak the same dialect? Many of the children of the East Side never hear English spoken at home. 

 4. What touches of humor are there in this story?

 5. What new words do you find? Define garrulous, pedagogically, cicerone. 

 6. Where did Miss Kelly get her materials for this story? See the life on page 37. 

 7. What other stories by this author have you read? This is from _Little Citizens_; other books telling about the same characters are _Little Aliens_, and _Wards of Liberty_. 

 8. Other books of short stories dealing with children are: _Whilomville Stories_, by Stephen Crane; _The Golden Age_, by Kenneth Grahame; _The Madness of Philip_, by Josephine Daskam Bacon; _The King of Boyville_, by William Allen White; _New Chronicles of Rebecca_, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Read one of these, and compare it with Myra Kelly's story. 

THE TENOR

 1. Point out the humorous touches in this story. 

 2. Is the story probable? To answer this, consider two points: would Louise have undertaken such a thing as answering the advertisement? and would she have had the spirit to act as she did at the close? Note the touches of description and characterization of Louise, and show how they prepare for the events that follow. 

 3. One of the most effective devices in art is the use of contrast; that is, bringing together two things or persons or ideas that are very different, perhaps the exact opposite of each other. Show that the main effect of this story depends on the use of contrast. 

 4. Read the paragraph on page 43 beginning, "It happened to be a French tenor. " Give in your own words the thought of this paragraph. Is it true? Can you give examples of it?

 5. Compare the length of this story with that of others in the book. Which authors get their effects in a small compass? Could any parts of this story be omitted?

 6. Other stories by H. C. Bunner that you will enjoy are "The Love Letters of Smith" and "A Sisterly Scheme" in _Short Sixes_. 

THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP

 1. Does the title fit the story well? Why?

 2. Notice the familiar, almost conversational style. Is it suited to the story? Why?

 3. Show how the opening paragraph introduces the main idea of the story. 

 4. To make a story there must be a conflict of some sort. What is the conflict here?

 5. How does the account of Julia Neal's career as a teacher (page 64) prepare for the ending of the story?

 6. Do you have a clear picture in your mind of Mrs. Winthrop? Of Mrs. Worthington? Why did not the author tell about their personal appearance?

 7. Point out humorous touches in the next to the last paragraph. 

 8. Is this story true to life? Who is the Priscilla Winthrop of your town?

 9. What impression do you get of the man behind this story? Do you think he knew the people of his town well? Did he like them even while he laughed at them? What else can you say about him?

 10. Other books of short stories dealing with life in a small town are: _Pratt Portraits_, by Anna Fuller; _Old Chester Tales_, by Margaret Deland; _Stories of a Western Town_, by Octave Thanet; _In a Little Town_, by Rupert Hughes; _Folks Back Home_, by Eugene Wood; _Friendship Village_, by Zona Gale; _Bodbank_, by Richard W. Child. Read one of these books, or a story from one, and compare it with this story. 

 11. In what ways does life in a small town differ from life in a large city?

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

This story, taken from the volume called _The Four Million_, is a goodexample of O. Henry's method as a short-story writer. It is notable forits brevity. The average length of the modern short story is about fivethousand words; O. Henry uses a little over one thousand words. Thisconciseness is gained in several ways. In his descriptions, he has theart of selecting significant detail. When Della looks out of the window, instead of describing fully the view that met her eyes, he says: "Shelooked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. "A paragraph could do no more. Again, the beginning of the story isquick, abrupt. There is no introduction. The style is often elliptical;in the first paragraph half the sentences are not sentences at all. Butthe main reason for the shortness of the story lies in the fact that theauthor has included only such incidents and details as are necessary tothe unfolding of the plot. There is no superfluous matter. 

Another characteristic of O. Henry is found in the unexpected turns ofhis plots. There is almost always a surprise in his stories, usually atthe end. And yet this has been so artfully prepared for that we acceptit as probable. Our pleasure in reading his stories is furtherheightened by the constant flashes of humor that light up his pages. Andbeyond this, he has the power to touch deeper emotions. When Della heardJim's step on the stairs, "she turned white just for a moment. She had ahabit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest things, and nowshe whispered, 'Please God, make him think I am still pretty. '" Onereads that with a little catch in the throat. 

In his plots, O. Henry is romantic; in his settings he is a realist. Della and Jim are romantic lovers, they are not prudent nor calculating, but act upon impulse. In his descriptions, however, he is a realist. Theeight-dollar-a-week flat, the frying pan on the back of the stove, thedescription of Della "flopping down on the couch for a cry, " andafterwards "attending to her cheeks with the powder-rag, "--all these arein the manner of realism. 

And finally, the tone of his stories is brave and cheerful. He finds theworld a most interesting place, and its people, even its commonplacepeople, its rogues, its adventurers, are drawn with a broad sympathythat makes us more tolerant of the people we meet outside the books. 

 1. Compare the beginning of this story with the beginning of "Bitter-Sweet. " What difference do you note?

 2. Select a description of a person that shows the author's power of concise portraiture. 

 3. What is the turn of surprise in this story? What other stories in this book have a similar twist at the end?

 4. What is the central thought of this story?

 5. Other stories of O. Henry's that ought not to be missed are "An Unfinished Story" and "The Furnished Room" in _The Four Million_; "A Blackjack Bargainer" in _Whirligigs_; "Best Seller" and "The Rose of Dixie" in _Options_; "A Municipal Report" in _Strictly Business_; "A Retrieved Reformation" in _Roads of Destiny_; and "Hearts and Crosses" in _Hearts of the West_. 

THE GOLD BRICK

This story, first published in the _American Magazine_, was reprinted ina volume called _The Gold Brick_, published in 1910. The quotation "chipat crusts like Hindus" is from Robert Browning's poem "Youth and Art. "The reference to "Old Walt" at the end of the story is to Walt Whitman, one of the great poets of democracy. 

 1. To make a story interesting, there must be a conflict. In this the conflict is double: the outer conflict, between the two political factions, and the inner conflict, in the soul of the artist. Note how skilfully this inner struggle is introduced: at the moment when Kittrell is first rejoicing over his new position, he feels a pang at leaving the _Post_, and what it stood for. This feeling is deepened by his wife's tacit disapproval; it grows stronger as the campaign progresses, until the climax is reached in the scene where he resigns his position. 

 2. If you knew nothing about the author, what could you infer from this story about his political ideals? Did he believe in democracy? Did he have faith in the good sense of the common people? Did he think it was worth while to make sacrifices for them? What is your evidence for this?

 3. How far is this story true to life, as you know it? Do any newspapers in your city correspond to the _Post_? To the _Telegraph_? Can you recall a campaign in which the contest was between two such groups as are described here?

 4. Does Whitlock have the art of making his characters real? Is this true of the minor characters? The girl in the flower shop, for instance, who appears but for a moment, --is she individualized? How?

 5. Is there a lesson in this story? State it in your own words. 

 6. What experiences in Whitlock's life gave him the background for this story?

 7. What new words did you gain from this? Define meritricious; prognathic; banal; vulpine; camaraderie; vilification; ennui; quixotic; naïve; pharisaism. What can you say of Whitlock's vocabulary?

 8. Other good stories dealing with politics are found in _Stratagems and Spoils_, by William Allen White. 

HIS MOTHER'S SON

 1. Note the quick beginning of the story; no introduction, action from the start. Why is this suitable to this story?

 2. Why is slang used so frequently?

 3. Point out examples of humor in the story. 

 4. In your writing, do you ever have trouble in finding just the right word? Note on page 123 how Edna Ferber tries one expression after another, and how on page 122 she finally coins a word--"unadjectivable. " What does the word mean?

 5. Do you have a clear picture of Emma McChesney? Of Ed Meyers? Note that the description of Meyers in the office is not given all at once, but a touch here and then. Point out all these bits of description of this person, and note how complete the portrait is. 

 6. What have you learned in this story about the life of a traveling salesman?

 7. What qualities must a good salesman possess?

 8. Was Emma McChesney a lady? Was Ed Meyers a gentleman? Why do you think so?

 9. This story is taken from the book called _Roast Beef, Medium_. Other good books of short stories by this author are _Personality Plus_, and _Cheerful--by Request_. 

BITTER-SWEET

 1. Note the introduction, a characteristic of all of Fannie Hurst's stories. What purpose does it serve here? What trait of Gertie's is brought out? Is this important to the story?

 2. From the paragraph on page 139 beginning "It was into the trickle of the last----" select examples that show the author's skill in the use of words. What other instances of this do you note in the story?

 3. Read the sketch of the author. What episode in her life gave her material for parts of this story?

 4. Notice how skillfully the conversation is handled. The opening situation developes itself entirely through dialogue, yet in a perfectly natural way. It is almost like a play rather than a story. If it were dramatized, how many scenes would it make?

 5. What does the title mean? Does the author give us the key to its meaning?

 6. What do you think of Gertie as you read the first part of the conversation in the restaurant? Does your opinion of her change at the end of the story? Has her character changed?

 7. Is the ending of the story artistic? Why mention the time-clock? What had Gertie said about it?

 8. State in three or four words the central idea of the story. Is it true to life?

 9. What is the meaning of these words: atavism; penumbra; semaphore; astigmatic; insouciance; mise-en-scene; kinetic?

 10. Other books of stories dealing with life in New York City are _The Four Million_, and _The Voice of the City_, by O. Henry; _Van Bibber and Others_, by Richard Harding Davis; _Every Soul Hath Its Song_, by Fannie Hurst; _Doctor Rast_, by James Oppenheim. 

THE RIVERMAN

 1. In how many scenes is this story told? What is the connection between them?

 2. Is there anything in the first description of Dicky Darrell that gives you a slight prejudice against him?

 3. Why was the sympathy of the crowd with Jimmy Powers in the birling match?

 4. Comment on Jimmy's remark at the end of the story. Did he mean it, or is he just trying to turn away the praise?

 5. What are the characteristics of a lumberman, as seen in Jimmy Powers?

 6. Read the sketch of Stewart Edward White, and decide which one of his books you would like to read. 

FLINT AND FIRE

 1. What does the title mean?

 2. How does the author strike the keynote of the story in the opening paragraph?

 3. Where is the first hint of the real theme of the story?

 4. Point out some of the dialect expressions. Why is dialect used?

 5. What turn of surprise comes at the end of the story? Is it probable?

 6. What characteristics of New England country people are brought out in this story? How does the author contrast them with "city people"?

 7. Does this story read as if the author knew the scenes she describes? Read the description of Niram plowing (page 191), and point out touches in it that could not have been written by one who had always lived in the city. 

 8. Read the account of how this story was written, (page 210). What first suggested the idea? What work remained after the story was first written? How did the author feel while writing it? Compare what William Allen White says about his work, (page 75). 

 9. Other stories of New England life that you will enjoy reading are found in the following books: _New England Nun_, Mary E. Wilkins; _Cape Cod Folks_, S. P. McLean Greene; _Pratt Portraits_, Anna Fuller; _The Country Road_, Alice Brown; _Tales of New England_, Sarah Orne Jewett. 

THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE

 1. This story contains three characters who are typical of many colored people, and as such are worth study. Howard Dokesbury is the educated colored man of the North. What are the chief traits of this character?

 2. Aunt Caroline is the old-fashioned darky who suggests slavery days. What are her chief characteristics?

 3. 'Lias is the new generation of the Southern negro of the towns. What are his characteristics?

 4. Is the colored American given the same rights as others? Read carefully the opening paragraph of the story. 

 5. What were the weaknesses of the colored people of Mt. Hope? How far are they true of the race? How were they overcome in this case?

 6. There are two theories about the proper solution of what is called "The Negro Problem. " One is, that the hope of the race lies in industrial training; the other theory, that they should have higher intellectual training, so as to develope great leaders. Which theory do you think Dunbar held? Why do you think so?

 7. Other stories dealing with the life of the colored people are: _Free Joe_, and _Tales of the Home Folks_, by Joel Chandler Harris; _Polished Ebony_, by Octavius R. Cohen; _Aunt Amity's Silver Wedding_, by Ruth McEnery Stuart; _In Ole Virginia_, by Thomas Nelson Page. 

ISRAEL DRAKE

The Pennsylvania State Police have made a wonderful record formaintaining law and order in the rural sections of the state. Thehistory of this organization was told by Katherine Mayo in a book called_Justice to All_. In a later book, _The Standard Bearers_, she tellsvarious incidents which show how these men do their work. The book isnot fiction--the story here told happened just as it is set down, eventhe names of the troopers are their real names. 

 1. Do you get a clear picture of Drake from the description? Why are several pages given to telling his past career?

 2. Where does the real story begin?

 3. Who was the tramp at the Carlisle Station? When did you guess it?

 4. What are the principles of the State Police, as you see them in this story?

 5. Why was such an organization necessary? Is there one in your state?

 6. What new words did you find in this story? Define aura, primeval, grisly. 

THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPH OF ISIDRO

In this story the author introduces a number of unfamiliar words, chiefly of Spanish origin, which are current in the Philippines. Themeanings are given below. 

 _baguio_, hurricane. _barrio_, ward; district. _carabao_, a kind of buffalo, used as a work animal. _cabo_, head officer. _cibay_, a boys' game. _daledale_, hurry up! _de los Reyes_, of the King. _de la Cruz_, of the cross. _hacienda_, a large plantation. _ladrones_, robbers. _maestro_, teacher. _nipa_, a palm tree or the thatch made from it. _palay_, rice. _pronto_, quickly. _pueblo_, town. _que barbaridad!_--what an atrocious thing! _volador_, kite. 

 1. Why does the story end with Isidro's crying? What did this signify? What is the relation of this to the beginning of the story?

 2. Has this story a central idea? What is it?

 3. This might be called a story of local color, in that it gives in some detail the atmosphere of an unfamiliar locality. What are the best descriptive passages in the story?

 4. Judging from this story, what are some of the difficulties a school teacher meets with in the Philippines? What must he be besides a teacher?

 5. What other school stories are there in this book? The pupils in Emmy Lou's school, (in Louisville, Ky. ) are those with several generations of American ancestry behind them; in Myra Kelly's story, they are the children of foreign parents; in this story they are still in a foreign land--that is, a land where they are not surrounded by American influences. The public school is the one experience that is common to them all, and therefore the greatest single force in bringing them all to share in a common ideal, to reverence the great men of our country's history, and to comprehend the meaning of democracy. How does it do these things?

THE CITIZEN

 1. During the war, President Wilson delivered an address at Philadelphia to an audience of men who had just been made citizens. The quoted passages in this story are taken from this speech. Read these passages, and select the one which probably gave the author the idea for this story. 

 2. Starting with the idea, that he would write a story about someone who followed a dream to America, why should the author choose Russia as the country of departure?

 3. Having chosen Russia, why does he make Ivan a resident of a village far in the interior? Why not at Libau?

 4. Two incidents are told as occurring on the journey: the charge of the police at Bobrinsk, and the coming on board of the apple woman at Queenstown. Why was each of these introduced? What is the purpose of telling the incident on Fifth Avenue?

 5. What have you learned about the manner in which this story was written? Compare it with the account given by Dorothy Canfield as to how she wrote her story. 

 6. What is the main idea in this story? Why do you think it was written? Edward Everett Hale wrote a story called "A Man without a Country. " Suggest another title for "The Citizen. "

 7. Has this story in any way changed your opinion of immigrants? Is Big Ivan likely to meet any treatment in America that will change his opinion of the country?

 8. The part of this story that deals with Russia affords a good example of the use of local color. This is given partly through the descriptions, partly through the names of the villagers--Poborino, Yanansk, Dankov; partly through the Russian words, such as verst (about three quarters of a mile), ruble (a coin worth fifty cents), kopeck (a half cent), muzhik (a peasant). How is local color given in the conversations?

 9. For a treatment of the theme of this story in poetry, read "Scum o' the Earth, " by Robert Haven Schauffler, in Rittenhouse's _Little Book of Modern Verse_. This is the closing stanza:

 "Newcomers all from the eastern seas, Help us incarnate dreams like these. Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong. Help us to father a nation, strong In the comradeship of an equal birth, In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth. "