Transcriber notes:For the benefit of certain readers, explanatory names have been added tosome illustration tags and these have been identified with an asterisk. 

A list of contents was not in the original book and has been added. 

THE BUSTED EX-TEXANAND OTHER STORIES

BY

W. H. H. MURRAY

[Illustration: Cover]*

[Illustration: W. H. H. Murray]

THE

BUSTED EX-TEXAN

AND

OTHER STORIES

BY

W. H. H. MURRAY

AUTHOR OF "DAYLIGHT LAND, " "THE STORY THE KEG TOLD ME, ""ADIRONDACK ADVENTURES, " ETC. 

PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT AND EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONSBY THOS. WORTH. 

BOSTONDE WOLFE, FISKE & CO. , PUBLISHERS1890

COPYRIGHT 1889 BY W. H. H. MURRAY. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 

CONTENTS

The Busted Ex-Texan

How Deacon Tubman And Parson Whitney Celebrated New Year's. 

The Leaf Of Red Rose

 ILLUSTRATIONS. 

 I. "I AM A BUSTED EX-TEXAN. "

 II. "PRACTICALLY INSIDE THE PAIL. "

 III. "AND WHEN I CAME DOWN. "

 IV. "LAY ABOARD OF THE OLD CUSS. "

 V. "LUFF HER UP--LUFF HER UP. "

 VI. THE DEACON AND PARSON. 

 VII. THE RACE. 

VIII. THE FIRST PRIZE FOR THE _Wickedest Cow_. 

THE BUSTED EX-TEXAN. 

THE BUSTED EX-TEXAN. 

We were camped amid the foot-hills on the trail which led up to theKicking Horse Pass. The sun had already passed from sight, beyond thewhite summits above us, and the shadow of the monstrous mountain rangedarkened the prairie to the east, to the horizon's rim. Our bivouac wasmade in a grove of lofty firs, six or eight in number; and a littlerivulet, trickling from the upper slopes, fell, with soft, lapsingsound, within a few feet of our camp-fire. We did not even pitch a tent, for the sky was mild, and above us the monstrous trees lifted theirprotecting canopy of stems. The hammocks were swung for the ladies, andeach gentleman "preëmpted" the claim that suited him best, by depositinghis blanket and rifle upon it. The entire party were in the best ofspirits, and nature responded to our happiness in its kindest mood. Laughter sounded pleasantly at intervals from the busy groups, eachworking at some self-appointed industry. The hum of cheerfulconversation mingled with the murmurs of the brook; and now and then thesnatch of some sweet song would break from tuneful lips, brief, spirited, melodious as a bobolink's, dashing upward from theclover-heads. And before the mighty shadow lying gloomily on the greatprairie plain, which stretched eastward for a thousand miles, had grownto darkness, the active, happy workers had given to the bivouac thatlook of designed orderliness which a trained party always give to anyspot they select in which to make a camp or pass a night. An hourbefore, there was nothing to distinguish that grove of trees, or theground beneath them, from any other spot or hill within the reach ofeye. But now it commanded the landscape; and, had you been trailingover the vast plain, the bright firelight, the group of men and womenmoving to and fro, the picketed horses, the fluttering bits of colorhere and there, would have caught your gaze ten miles away; and were youtired or hungry, or even lonesome, you would have naturally turned yourhorse's head toward that camp as toward a cheerful reception and a home;for wherever is happy human life, to it all lonely life is drawn as by amagnet. 

And this was demonstrated by our experience then and there. For, scarcely had we done with supper, --and by this time the gloom had grownto darkness, and the half-light of evening held the landscape, --when outof the semi-gloom there came a call, --the call of a man hailing a camp. Indeed, we were not sure he had not hailed several times before we heardhim; for, to tell the truth, we were a very merry crowd, and as light ofheart as if there was not a worry or care in all the world, --at leastfor us, --and the smallest spark of a joke exploded us like a battery. Indeed, so rollicking was our mood that our laughter was nearlycontinuous, and it is quite possible that the stranger may have hailedus more than once without our hearing him. And this was the more likelybecause the man's voice was not of the loudest, nor was it positive inthe energy of its appeal. 

Indeed, there was a certain feebleness or timidity in the stranger'shail, as if he was mistrustful that any good fortune could respond tohim, and, hence, deprecated the necessity of the resort. But hear him wedid at last, and he was greeted with a chorus of voices to "Come in!Come in! You're welcome!" And partly because we had finished our repast, and partly from courtesy and the natural promptings of gentlefolk togive a visitor courteous greeting, we all arose and received himstanding. And, certainly, had the kindly act been unusual with us, notone of our group would have regretted the extra condescension bestowedupon him at his coming, after he had entered the circle of ourfirelight, and we saw the expression of his features. 

What a mirror the human face is! Looking into it, how we behold thesoul, the accidents that have befallen it and the disappointments it hasborne! Are not the faces of men as carved tablets on which we read therecords of their lives? The face of childhood is smoothly beautiful, like a white page on which neither with ink of red or black has any pendrawn character. But, as the years go on, the pen begins to move and thefatal tracery to grow, --that tracery which means and tells so much. Andthe face of this man, --this waif, so to speak, --this waif that had cometo us from the stretch of the prairie, whose southern line is thesouthern gulf; this stranger, who had come so suddenly to the circle ofour light, and so plaintively sought admission to its comfort and itscheer, was a face which one might read at a glance. Not one in ourcircle that did not instantly feel that he embodied some overwhelmingcalamity. A look of sadness, of a mild, continuous sorrow, overspreadhis face. There was a pitiful expression about the mouth, as if bravedetermination had withdrawn its lines from it forever. From his eyes acertain mistrustfulness looked forth, --not mistrustfulness of others, but of himself, --as if confidence in his own powers had received anoverwhelming shock. The man's appearance made an instant andunmistakable impression upon the entire company. The ladies--God blesstheir sweet and sympathetic natures!--were profoundly moved at thepitiful aspect of our guest. Their bosoms thrilled with sympathy for oneupon whose devoted head evil fortune had so evidently emptied itsquiver. Nor were our less sensitive masculine natures untouched by hisforlorn appearance. 

"A target for evil fortune, " whispered Dick to the major. 

"A regular bull's-eye!" was the solemn response. "A bull's-eye, by gad!at the end of the score. "

It was not a poetic expression. I wish the reader to note that I do notrecord it as such. I only preserve it as evidence of the major'shumanity, and of the unaffected sympathy for the stranger, which at thatmoment filled all hearts. 

Naturally, as it can well be imagined, the gayety of our company hadbeen utterly checked by the coming of our sad guest. In the presence ofsuch a wreck of human happiness, perhaps of human hope, what person ofany sensibility could maintain a lightsome mood? Had it not been for onepeculiarity, --a peculiarity, I am confident, all of us observed, --thedepression of our spirits would have been as profound as it wasuniversal. This peculiarity was the stranger's appetite. This, fortunately, had remained unimpaired, --an oasis in the Sahara of hislife. 

"The one remnant left him from the wreck of his fortunes, " whisperedDick. 

"A perfect remnant!" returned the major, sententiously. 

For myself, acting as host to this appetite, and being naturally of aphilosophic turn, I watched its development with the keenest interest, not to say with a growing curiosity. "Here is something, " I said tomyself, "that is unique. That fine law of recompense which is kindlydistributed through the universe finds here, " I reflected, "a mostinstructive and conclusive demonstration. Robbed, by an adverse fate, ofall that made life agreeable, this man, this pilgrim of time, thiswayfarer to eternity, this companion of mine on the road of life, hashad bestowed upon him an extraordinary solace, has been permitted toretain a commensurate satisfaction. Surely, life cannot have lost itsattractions for one whose stomach still preserves such aspirations. "And, prompted by the benevolence of my mood, and the anticipations of awise forecast, I collected in front of me whatever edibles remained onthe table, that, if the supply of our hospitality should proveinsufficient, the exhibition of its spirit should at least beconclusive. 

But, if the countenance of the stranger was of a most melancholy cast, there were not lacking hints that by nature he had been endowed withvivacity of spirit; for, as he continued, with an industry which wasremarkable, to refresh himself, there were appearances, which came tothe eye and the corners of his mouth, which made the observer concludethat he was not lacking the sense of humor; and, if his experience hadbeen most unfortunate, there was in him an ability to appreciate theludicrousness of its changeful situations. Indeed, one could butconclude that originally he must have been of a buoyant, not to saysanguine disposition; and, if one could but prevail upon him to narratethe incidents of his life, they would be found to be most entertaining. 

It was something like an hour before our melancholy-looking guest hadfully improved the opportunity with which a benignant Providence hadsupplied him, --a freak in which, one might conclude, she seldomindulged. He ceased to eat, and sat for a moment gazing pensively at thedishes. It seemed to me--but in this I may possibly be mistaken--that adarker shade of sadness possessed his face at the conclusion than theone that shadowed it so heavily at the beginning of the repast. "Thepleasures of hope, " I said to myself, "are evidently greater to myspecies than are those of recollection. Now that there is nothing leftfor my guest to anticipate, it is evident that memory ceases to excite. "And I could but feel that, had our provisions been more abundant, thestranger's appetite would not have been so easily appeased. Withsomething of regret in my voice, I sought to divert his mind from thatsense of disappointment which I judged from his countenance threatenedto oppress his spirits. 

"Friend, " I said, "I doubt not that you have trailed a goodly distance, and your fasting has been long?"

"I have not eaten a meal in two days, " was the response. 

"Heavens!" exclaimed Dick in an aside to the major. "Is it credible thatthat man ate two days ago!"

"Gad!" exclaimed the major, "the man's stomach is nothing but a pocket. "

"A pocket! I should call it an unexplored cavern!" retorted Dick. 

"The direction and reason of your long trail would be interesting, " Iresumed. "And, if not impertinent, friend, may I ask you whence you havecome?"

"I have journeyed from Texas, " replied the man, and his voice nearlybroke as he said it. 

"_Oh!_" exclaimed the ladies, and they sympathetically groupedthemselves, anticipating, with true feminine sensitiveness, someterrible dénouement. 

"_Texas!_" I ejaculated. 

"_Gad!_" said the major. 

"The _Devil!_" said Dick. 

"Yes, _Texas!_" repeated the man, and he groaned. 

By this time, as any intelligent reader will easily divine, our wholegroup was in a condition of mild excitement. Several of us had residedin Texas, and we felt that we stood at the threshold of a history, --ahistory with infinite possibilities in it. For myself, I knew not how toproceed. My position as a host forbade me to interrogate. The sorrows oflife are sacred, and my sensitiveness withheld me from thrusting myselfwithin the enclosure of my guest's recollections. That his experiences, could we but be favored with a narration of them, would beentertaining, --painfully entertaining, --I keenly realized; but how toproceed I saw not. I remained silent. 

"Yes, "--it was the stranger who broke the silence, --"I am a bustedex-Texan!"

[Illustration: I AM A BUSTED EX-TEXAN. ]

The relief that came to me at the instant was indescribable. The pathwas made plain. We all felt that we were not only on the threshold of ahistory, but of a narration of that history. The ladies fluttered intoposition for listening. I could but see it, and so I am bound to recordthat I saw Dick irreverently punch the major. It was a punch whichcarried with it the significance of an exclamation. The major receivedit with the face of a Spartan, but with the grunt of a Chinook chief. 

"Friend, " I said, "we are accustomed to beguile the evening hours withentertaining descriptions of travels, often of personal incidents of thehaps and hazards of life; and, if it would not be disagreeable to you, we would be vastly entertained, beyond doubt, by any narration withwhich you might favor us of your Texan experiences and of the fortuneswhich befell you there. "

For a few moments, the silence remained unbroken, save by the crackle ofthe fire and the soft movement in the great firs overhead, --a movementwhich is to sound what dawn is to the day; not so much a sound as afeathery suggestion that sound might come. It was a genial hour, and themood of the hour began to be felt in our own. The warmth of it evidentlypenetrated the bosom of our guest. He had eaten. He wasfilled, --appreciably so at least, and that happy feeling, thatcomfortable sense of fulness, which characterizes the after-dinner hour, pervaded him with its genial glow. He loosened his belt, --anothertremendous nudge from Dick, --and a look of contentment softened hisfeatures. Whatever storm had wrecked his life, he had now passed beyondits billows, and from the sure haven into which he had been blown hecould gaze with complacent resignation, if not with happiness, at thedangers through which he had passed. I am sure that we were alldelighted at the brightening appearance of our guest, and felt that, ifthe story he was to tell us was one which included disasters, it wouldat least be lightened by traces of humor and the calm acceptance of aphilosophic mind. 

"I was born in the State of Connecticut, " so our guest began hisnarration. "I came from a venturesome stock, and the instinct ofcommercial enterprise may be regarded as hereditary in my family. Mygrandfather was the first one to discover the tropical attributes of thebeech-wood tree. He first perceived that it contained within its fibresthe pungency of the nutmeg. With a celerity which we remember with pridein our family, he availed himself of the commercial value of hisdiscovery, and for years did a prosperous trade on the credulity ofmankind. He was a man of humor, --a sense which has been to some extenttransmitted to myself, --he was a man of humor, and I have no doubt heenjoyed the joke he was practising on people, fully as much as theprofits which the practical embodiment of his humor brought to hispocket. My father was a deacon, a man of true piety and eminentlyrespectable. He was engaged in the retail-grocery business, --a businesswhich offers opportunities to a person of wit and of an inventive turnof mind. The butter that he sold was salted invariably by one rule--arule which he discovered and applied in the cellar of the store himself;and the sugar which he sold, if it was sanded, was always sanded by amethod which improved rather than detracted from its appearance. "

Here our guest paused a moment, as if enjoying the recollections of thevirtues of his ancestors. His face was as sober as ever, but his lookwas one of contentment; and I could but note the suggestion ofmerriment--the merriment of a happy memory--in his eye. How happy it isfor an offspring to be able to recall the character of his forefatherswith such liveliness of mind!

"The motive which impelled me towards Texas, " he resumed, "was one whichwas natural for me to feel, thus ancestrally connected. I had heired myfather's business, --the deacon, who had died full of honors, ripe inyears, and in perfect peace. But the business did not prosper in myhands; perhaps, I had not heired, with the business, the deacon'sability, --that accuracy of eye, that gravity of appearance, thatdeftness of touch, so to speak, which underlay his success. Be that asit may, the business did not pay, and without hesitation I sold it; and, with a comfortable sum for investment, I journeyed to Texas. 

"It is proper for me to remark that the welcome I received was mostcordial. I chose a populous centre for a temporary residence, andproceeded to look around me. I found the Texans to be a warm-heartedpeople, much given to hospitality, and willing, with a charmingdisinterestedness, to admit all new-comers, with capital, to theenormous profits of their various enterprises. 

"For the first time in my life, I found myself among a people who weresuccessful in everything they undertook. Their profits were simplyenormous. No speculation could possibly fail. However I invested mymoney, I was assured that I would speedily become a millionnaire. Cottonwas a certain crop. Corn was never known to fail. The Texan tobacco wasrapidly driving the Cuban out of the market. The aboriginal grapes ofthe State, of which there were millions of acres waiting for thepresses, yielded, as Europe confessed, a wine superior to Champagne. IfI preferred herding, all I had to do was to purchase a few sheep andsimply sit down. There was no section of the globe where sheep were soprolific, fleeces so thick, or the demands of market so clamorous. And, as for horses, I was assured that no one in Texas who knew the facts ofthe case would spend any time in raising them. The prairies were full ofthem, hundreds of thousands of them, all blooded stock, 'truedescendants, sir, from the Moorish Barb, distributed through the wholecountry at the Spanish invasion. ' I need do nothing but purchase fiftythousand acres, fence the territory in, and the enclosed herds wouldcontinue to propagate indefinitely. Such were the delightful pictureswhich my entertainers presented to me. Captivated by the charmingmanners of my hosts, my sanguine temperament kindled into heat at thetouch of their enthusiasm. Where every venture was sure of successfulissue, there was no need for deliberation or selection. I investedindiscriminately in all, and waited buoyantly for the results. "

Here the stranger paused, compelled, perhaps, by a slight interruption. Dick had retired, closely followed by the major. Our guest certainly wasnot devoid of humor, and I was convinced, as I watched the play of hisfeatures, that he apprehended and appreciated the reason for theirretirement. He lifted a plate from the table, inspected it closely, turned it over, gazed contemplatively at its reversed side, and, poising it deftly upon the point of three fingers, quietly remarked:--

"The gentlemen, I judge, have been in Texas?"

"They have, " I replied: "we three were there together. "

"Ah!"

It was all he said. I might add, it was all that could be said. 

At this point, Dick and the major rejoined us. Their eyes showed tracesof recent tears. They were still wiping their faces with theirhandkerchiefs. With that refinement which is characteristic of truegentlemen, and which seeks concealment of any extraordinary emotion, they had considerately retired to indulge their laughter. 

"I am delighted, " continued our guest, after Dick and the major hadresumed their seats, "I am delighted to find myself in company with menof experience. I feel that you will not question the veracity of mystory, or fail to appreciate the outcome of my enterprises. At the endof two years, my property was distributed promiscuously throughout theState, and I was reduced to the necessity of making one final venture torecoup myself for the losses which, to the astonishment of the entireTexan community, I assured them I had met. I was the only man, as theyasserted, 'that had ever failed to make a magnificent success in Texas. '

"You can readily conceive, gentlemen, that I was determined to make nomistake in my final venture. There were other reasons, beside the one ofcaution, which persuaded me to begin with a moderate investment; so Ibought one cow. It was impossible for me to make a mistake from such abeginning. Every person in Texas that had rapidly risen to financialeminence had started with one cow. Many a time had a Texan ranchmanswept his hand with a royal gesture over a landscape of flowers andMesquite brush, dotted with thousands of cattle, and exclaimed, 'Stranger, I started this yer ranch with one cow. ' And then he wouldtake out a piece of chalk and figure out to me on his saddle how thatone cow had multiplied herself into seven thousand five hundred andtwenty-three other cows, which had proceeded to promptly multiplythemselves, 'regular as the seasons come round, sir, ' in the samereckless manner, until it was evident that the number of her progeny wasactually curtailed by the size of the saddle and the lack of chalk. Now, I was eager to possess a cow with such a multiplication-tableattachment, and, being unable to wait even ten years before I couldtingle with the sensation of being a millionnaire ranchman. I decided toshorten the probationary stage by half, and so I purchased two cows. "

At this point, Dick rolled over upon the grass, and the major wasdoubled up as with sudden pain. As for myself, I confess I could notrestrain my emotions. I had been through the same experience as hadfallen to my guest, and I appreciated the sanguine characteristics ofhis temperament, which prompted him to the investment, and the humor ofthe situation. I laughed till my eyes flowed with tears, and thestillness of the foot-hills resounded with the unrestrained merriment ofthe entire camp. 

The humor of our guest was truly American, the humor of suggestiverestraint and exaggeration both. He narrated his experiences, which hadresulted in the loss of his fortune and the collapse of his hopes, witha face like a deacon's, and with a quaint and most charming sense of theludicrousness of the position--a position of which he himself was thecause and central object. He fairly represented that type of men whocombine in their composition that which is most practical andimaginative alike; whose energy can subdue a continent, and whoseboastfulness would awaken contempt if it were not palliated by themagnitude of their achievements. A humor that is often barbed, but whichis most willingly directed against one's self; but, whether directedagainst the humorist or his neighbor, carries no poison upon its pointand leaves no wound to rankle. 

"My financial condition, " said our guest, resuming, "my financialcondition at the time I made this final investment contributed to thehopefulness of my mood, and made me feel the excitement of a recklessspeculation, for, though my two cows only cost me seventeen dollars andfifty cents each, nevertheless, when the purchase was concluded, and thegoods delivered, and I had made a careful inventory of my remainingassets, --a business proceeding which the average Texan found itnecessary to go through about once in two weeks, in order that he mightknow what his financial standing was, or whether he had any standing atall, --when, I say, the purchase was consummated, and an inventory of myremaining assets made, I discovered that the two cows had swallowed upnearly my entire estate, and that a few dollars of farther expenditurewould plunge me into bottomless insolvency. I must confess that thisdisclosure of my financial condition added zest to the undertaking, andfilled me with that fine excitement which accompanies a desperatespeculation. I have always felt that another cow would have made afinancier of me, and that I could have taken my place among my brethrenin Wall Street without a tremor of the muscles or the least sense ofinferiority. 

"The cows were both black in color; so black that they would make a spotin the darkness of the blackest night that ever gloomed under thecypresses of the Guadaloupe. 'If those cows, ' I said to myself as Ilooked them over, 'if those cows ever do bring forth calves at the ratethat the Texan of whom I purchased them figured out on his saddle, they'll put the whole State under an eclipse. '

"I cannot say, --speaking with that restraint which I have alwayscultivated, --I cannot say, ladies and gentlemen, that I regarded eithercow with any great affection. There were peculiarities about them, whichchecked the outgoing of my emotional nature. They had a way of lookingat me through the wire fence, that made me feel grateful to the inventorof barbed wire. I cannot describe the look exactly. It was a direct, earnest, steady, intense inspection of my person, that made me feel outof place, as it were, and caused me to remember that I had duties athome, which required me to get there as rapidly as possible. 

"One morning, seeing that the basis of my speculation was near thecentre of the field, and busily feeding on the bountiful growths ofnature, I crept softly through the wires of the fence that I mightgather some pecan nuts under a big tree that stood some twenty rodsaway. I reached the tree in safety, and proceeded to pick up the nuts. Ihad filled one pocket only when I heard a noise behind me, and, lookingup, I saw that all the profits of my stock speculation, and all my stockitself, were coming toward me on a jump. I was never more collected inmy life. My mind instantly reached the conclusion that the pecan cropthat year was so large in Texas that it would not pay to pick up anothernut under that tree; that the whole thing should stand over, as it were, until another fall, and that, the sooner I retired from that field, thebetter it would be for me and the few pecans I had about me. 

"Acting in harmony with this conclusion, --which to my mind carried withit the force of a demonstration, --I started for the wire fence. I haveno doubt but that the line of my movement was absolutely straight. Iassure you, gentlemen, that if cows had multiplied in my businessconnection as rapidly as they did in my imagination during the nextsixty seconds of time, I should have been in Texas to this day. Thewhole field was actually alive with cows. I reached the fence just onejump ahead of the oldest cow, and, seeing no reason why I should taketime to crawl through between the wires, I lifted myself over the airyobstruction in a manner that must have convinced that old animated bitof blackness that I had absolute ownership in every nut about me. Thislittle episode supplied me with material for reflection for at least aweek, and made me realize that any northern man that enters into aspeculation with Texas cows as a basis must keep his eyes open, and notallow his thoughts to be diverted by any side issues, like pecan nuts, while the business is developing. 

"The sixth morning after my speculation had arrived at the ranch, myprofits began to roll in upon me, --or, to state it more practically, andin a business-like manner, the oldest cow produced a calf. This raisedmy spirits, and made me feel that my business was fairly started. I wentto my stock-book and promptly made an entry as follows: 7523-1. Thismeant that there were only seven thousand five hundred and twenty-_two_yet to realize on; that is, if seven thousand five hundred andtwenty-two calves should promptly come to time, seeing that one calf hadalready actually come to time, my herd would be complete. I think, gentlemen, you can readily understand my feelings as I stoodcontemplating the first fruition of my hopes from behind a tree. The cowwas securely tied, but still from habit I took my usual position wheninspecting my stock. My mood was very hopeful. I felt as every Texanfelt, in those days, when by some accident he found himself inpossession of actual property. 'There is a calf, ' I said; 'I've only hadto wait six days for that calf to materialize. Suppose another calfshould materialize in six days. ' I extracted a pencil from my pocket andbegan to figure. I multiplied that calf by six--I mean that at the endof six days I multiplied that calf by another calf. Every time I putdown a new multiplier I took a look at the calf, and every time I lookedat the calf it multiplied itself, as it were, until I felt the fullforce of the Texan's statement, save that, the more I multiplied, themore I felt that seven thousand five hundred and twenty-three did notfairly represent the certainties of the speculation. That cow wouldsurely make a millionnaire of me yet--if nothing happened. 

"But, gentleman, something did happen, and it happened in this wise: Youhave doubtless, by this, concluded that the cow was a wild cow. The manwho sold her to me had not put it precisely that way. He had representedher to me as a cow of mild manners, thoroughly domesticated, of thesweetest possible temper, used to the women folks, playful withchildren, --in short, a creature of such amiability that she actuallylonged to be petted. But I had already discovered that her manners weresomewhat abrupt, and that either the man did not understand the natureof the cow or I did not understand the man. I was convinced that, if shehad ever been domesticated, it had been done by some family every memberof which had died in the process, or had suddenly moved out of thecountry only a short distance ahead of her, and that she had utterlyforgotten her early training. Still, I had no doubt but that heramiability was there, although temporarily somewhat latent, and that theinfluences of a gentle spirit would revive the dormant sensibilities ofher nature. 'The sight of a milk-pail, ' I said to myself, 'will surelyawaken the reminiscences of her early days, and of that sweet home-lifewhich was hers when she yielded at morn and at night her gladcontribution to the nourishment of a Christian family. '

"There was on my ranch a servitor of foreign extraction who did mycooking for what he could eat, --Chin Foo by name, --and to him I calledto bring me the large tin pail, which served the household--which, likemost Texan households in the Tertiary period, so to speak, of theirfortunes, was conducted on economic principles--as a washtub, achip-basket, a water-bucket, and a dinner-gong. It also occurred to me, as I stood looking at the cow and caught the spirit of her expression, so to speak, that, as she had come to stay, was a permanent fixture ofthe establishment, as it were, Chin Foo might as well do the milkingfirst as last. Moreover, as the Texan from whom I purchased her hadassured me that she was a kind of household pet, the children's friend, and took to women folks naturally, the case was a very clear one. For, as Chin Foo had long hair, wore no hat, and dressed in flowing drapery, the cow, unless she was more of a physiologist than I gave her creditfor, would be in doubt somewhat as to the sex of the Chinaman; andbefore she had time to ruminate upon it and reach a dead-sureconclusion, the milking would be over; and I would have scored the firstpoint in the game, if she was a cow of ability, had any trumps, and wasup to any tricks, as it were. So I told Chin Foo, as he approached withthe pail in his hand, that the cow was a splendid milker, thoroughlydomesticated, accustomed to Chinamen, and that he might have the honorof milking her first. I remarked, furthermore, that, as everythingabout the place was new to her, and she was a little nervous, I wouldgently attract her attention in front, while he proceeded to extract thedelicious fluid. I charged him, in addition, to remember that it wasalways the best policy to approach a cow of her temperament in a boldand indifferent manner, as if he had milked her all his life, and getdown to business at once; and that any hesitation or show of nervousnesson his part would tend to make her more nervous. 

"I must say that Chin Foo acted in a highly creditable manner, considering he was in a strange land, and, to my certain knowledge, hadno money laid by for funeral expenses; for, while I was stirring thedust and flourishing my stick in a desultory manner in front of the cow, to divert her mind, and keep her thoughts from wandering backward toodirectly, he fluttered boldly up to her, and laid firmly hold of twoteats, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. "

At this point of his narration the stranger paused a moment. There was asort of plaintive look on his face, and he gazed at the plates with anexpression in his eyes of sorrowful recollection. 

"I cannot say, " he resumed, as one who speaks oppressed with a sense ofuncertainty, "exactly what did happen, for I never saw the Chinamanagain until he alighted. I only know that when he came down he waspractically inside the pail, and that he sat in it a moment with a kindof dreamy eastern look on his face, as if he lived on the isle of Patmosand had seen a vision. And when he had crawled out of the pail he wentdirectly into the house, saying, 'The Melican man is dam foolee to tryto milkee that cussee!' or words to that effect. 

[Illustration: PRACTICALLY INSIDE THE PAIL. ]

"But I did not agree with him. I reflected that the Chinese are only animitative race, and wholly lacking in original perception. 'They neverinvent anything, ' I said; 'never study into causes, never get down toprinciples, as it were. It requires a purely occidental intellect tomaster the problem before me. This cow has a strong disinclination to bemilked. Why? What is the motive of her conduct? If I could only answerthat!' All at once it came to me, --came like a flash. The reason wasplain. 'This cow is a mother. The maternal instinct in her case isbeautifully developed. Her reasoning faculties less so. She has a calf. To her mind, we are trying to rob her beloved offspring of itsnourishment. She naturally resents this injustice on our part. Beautifuldevelopment of maternity, ' I apostrophized, as I looked at the cow inthe light of this new revelation. 'Thy instincts are those that sweetenthe world, and remind us of the benignity that planned the universe. Iwill bring thy calf to thee. I will show thee that I am not devoid ofthe spirit of equity; that I am ready to go shares and play fair, as itwere. Thy calf shall take one side of thee. I will take the other, andthy soul will come forth to me in gratitude!'

"I was delighted. I went directly to the pen, and gazed benevolently atthe calf. The little imp was blacker, if possible, than its mother. There was that same peculiar look also in its eyes. 'You're all hers!' Ijoyfully cried, 'you are your mother's own child!' I seized hold of theneck-rope. I opened the pen-door and I went out through that doorquicker than a vagrant cat ever got round a corner of a house where aScotch terrier boards. The calf went under the cow and I struck her, head on. But I had come to stay. I grabbed the pail with one hand and ateat with the other. I tugged it, pulled it, twisted it. Not a dropcould I start. A suction pump of twenty horse-power would have found itdrier than Sahara, and all the while the calf's mouth, on the otherside, was actually running over with milk! In two minutes he looked likea black watermelon. Then the cow, with a kind of back action, suddenly reached out one foot, and when I came to I found myselffacing a mulberry tree, with one leg on each side of it. 

[Illustration: "AND WHEN I CAME DOWN. "]

"By this time I had reached a decision, and I had the courage of myconvictions. I felt it to be my duty to milk that cow. I reminded her inplain, straightforward language that I was the son of a deacon, and thatshe'd find it out before she got through with me. I assured her that Iunderstood the beauty of righteousness, and that I held a strong hand--astraight flush, as it were. I was well aware that the metaphor wassomewhat mixed; but it expressed my sentiments and relieved my feelings, and so I fired it at her point-blank. She snorted and pawed andbellowed, and swore at me in cow-language, but I didn't care for that. So I shook the old, battered milk-pail in her face, and told her I wasborn in Connecticut, and did business on spot-cash principle; and thatshe would know more of the commandments than any cow of her color inTexas, before we said our long farewell. 

"By this time the matter had attracted a good deal of attention, for Ihad carried on my conversation with the cow in the voice of a tragedianwhen the chief villain of the play has stolen his girl, and my nextneighbor, an old sea-captain from Mattagorda Bay, and his hired men hadcome over to assist me. They were of the nature of a reënforcement, which consisted of the captain, a Mexican, a Michigan man thatstuttered, and two negroes--Napoleon Bonaparte de Neville Smith, andGeorge Washington Marlborough Johnsing, by name. Hence we were six inall, and I decided to take the offensive at once. The captain wasadvanced in years and rheumatic, but a clearheaded man, used to command, and had 'boarded, ' as he expressed it, 'several of the----crafts in hisown waters. ' So I put him in charge of the marines, namely, ourselves, and told him to fight the ship for all she was worth. He caught on tothe thing at once, and swore he would 'sweep the old black hulk foreand aft, and send every mother's son to the bottom, or make her strikeher colors. ' The vigor of the gallant old gentleman's language, and thenoble manner in which he shook his cane at the old pirate, put us all ingood spirits, and I verily believe that, if he had at that fortunatemoment given the word 'board!' we would, niggers and all, have gone overthe bulwarks of that old cow with a rush. 

"The captain's plan of action was proof of his courage, and in harmonywith my own ideas of the matter. He said that our force was ample, everygun shotted, and the ports open: that we had the windward gauge of her, and that the proper course was to send a boat in to cut her cable, and, when she drifted down with the current, we would ware ship, lay upalongside, grapple, pass lashings aboard, and send the whole crew on toher deck with a rush. Assaulted in such a man-of-war style, he wasconfident she would become confused, be intimidated, and strike hercolors without firing a gun. The brave and sonorous language with whichour commander set forth his plan of assault captured our imaginations, and we all longed for the moment when the word of command should permitus to swarm up the sides and over the rail of the old bovine. 

"Not only was the general plan thus agreed upon, but each man had hispost of duty assigned to him. When the 'cable was cut, ' that is, whenthe cow should find herself at liberty and bolt, as she would be sure todo, the Mexican was to lasso her and hang on; Napoleon Bonaparte deNeville and George Washington Marlborough were to lay hold of her hornsto 'port and starboard, ' as the captain insisted, while the Michiganman--who was over six feet tall, and leggy--was to fasten with a goodgrip on to her tail, that he might serve not only as a 'drag, ' as ourcommander phrased it, but as a pilot as well, 'if she should get toyawing or be suddenly taken aback, and be unable to come up into thewind promptly, ' while I was held in reserve to guard againstemergencies. I did not quite like the position assigned to me, and sointimated to the captain, but he said no one could tell how it might gowhen we once got out of the harbor, and, if any of the braces shouldpart, or the sea get high, that he would have to send an additional manto the wheel, 'for, ' he added, in a whisper, 'God knows, thatlong-legged Michigan land-lubber could never keep her to a straightcourse if she should once get running with the wind over her quarter, and everything drawing, through that cornfield. ' I saw the force of hisreasoning, and felt easier. 

"So, without farther delay, we went into action. The old captain stood, knife in hand, ready to cut the lariat which held the cow to the tree, but, before he did so, he hailed, '_All ready to cut cables!_'

"'Fo' de lawd, cap'in!' yelled Napoleon de Neville, 'what is dis yerenigger gwine to do if de udder nigger lets go?'

"'Go way dar, nigger!' retorted George Washington Marlborough; 'what youtakes dis nigger for if you tinks I's gwine to let go dis ole blackcow?'

"'I'll give a silver dollar to the nigger that holds on the longest, ' Iyelled. 

"'Well answered, mate, ' sang out the old captain. '_All ready to cutcables. Cut she is!_'

"The cow gave a bellow like the roar of a lion, and made a rush withlowered horns at the captain. Now, this was not the course laid down onhis chart for her to take; and he and the rest of us were struck allaback, as he afterwards expressed it; but he met the emergency withspirit. He broke his big, Spanish-oak stick on the nose of the brute, and then the old mariner rolled in the dust. 

"'Lay aboard of her, men!' shouted the old hero, in a voice like afog-horn, flourishing the fragments of his stick. 'Lay aboard of the oldcuss, I say! Cast your grapplings, Greaser! Seize her helm, some ofye, and throw it hard over to port!'

[Illustration: "LAY ABOARD OF THE OLD CUSS!"]

"These orders were obeyed with alacrity. Not a man flinched. The loop ofthe lasso settled over the polished horns to the roots, and Don Juan SanDiego set it tight with a twang. Napoleon Bonaparte and GeorgeWashington rushed headlong upon her and hung to horns and ears; whilethe man from Michigan fastened a grip on her lifted tail, as she torepast him, which straightened him out like a lathe. As to myself, I couldonly stand and gaze with solicitude upon the terrific contest, on theissue of which depended not only the chances of my speculation, but eventhe preservation of my self-esteem. 

"The combat deepened and enlarged itself, as it were. A bull-dog, whowas wandering along the road in search of adventure, and two foxhoundsjoined in the fight. The calf, the only one of the seven thousand fivehundred and twenty-three I was ever destined to behold, broke from itspen and ran bellowing to its mother. The dogs bayed, the niggers yelled, the Mexican swore in his delightful tongue; and the stutteringMichigander remained silent, simply from his inability to pronounce theprofanity of his feelings. 

"Suddenly the cow, which had been slowly working her way, with herseveral attachments clinging to her, toward the road which ran along thefront of the field, turned and started pell-mell toward the river, whichflowed wide and deep, through the rushes, at the rear of it. She leftthe path and took to the corn, and through the mass of growing stalksshe swept like a whirlwind. Onward she came. I anticipated the awfulcatastrophe, and stood riveted to the spot. The old captain still sat inthe gravel, where the cow had bowled him, his hand grasping theshattered cane, and his game leg extended. He too foresaw theinevitable. Through the corn came the cow, like a black Saturn attendedby her satellites. But her career was too terrific for these to hold totheir connection. The laws of the universe forbade it. NapoleonBonaparte de Neville lost his hold as she crashed into the sorghumpatch. George Washington Marlborough tripped over an irrigation ditch, and soared away at a tangent, like a sputtering remnant of a burnt-outworld. Don Juan San Diego went the wrong side of a mulberry tree, andthe lasso parted with a snap. He never stopped until his momentumcarried him through the slats of the neighboring cow-pen. Only thelong-legged Michigander kept his hold, and he looked like a pair ofextended scissors. I stood aghast at the impending ruin of my hopes, with my lower jaw dropped. The captain alone retained his presence ofmind. As the black unit of my last Texan speculation shot by him, withMichigan, elongated like a peninsula, fastened to her tail, he rolled upto his knees and roared:--

"'_Starboard your helm, boy!_ _Luff her up! Luff her up, for the loveof God, or the colonel is busted!_'

"It is doubtful if the Michigan man ever heard the stentorian call ofthe captain, for sound travels only thirteen hundred feet to the second, and the cow was certainly going considerably faster than that; and, besides, he was himself engaged, with a terrific earnestness, in a vaineffort to extricate a word out of his throat, which stuck like a wad ina smutty gun--a word of undoubted Saxon origin and of expressive force, and which has saved more blood-vessels from bursting than the lancet ofthe phlebotomist, for as he streamed past there was left floating uponthe air a long string of d's, thus: d----d----d--d--d--d-d-d. . . !

"No one who did not hear them could ever conceive of the awfulsputtering, hissing sound that they caused in the atmosphere as theycame out of the mouth of the mad and stuttering Michigander; and as heand the cow bored a hole through the reeds on the bank of the river, and, hitting a cypress stump, ricochetted into the water, that fierystring of d's, still hot and sputtering, reached half across the field. 

[Illustration: "LUFF HER UP! LUFF HER UP!"]

"The splash of the two as they struck the water brought the old captainto his feet, and, in spite of his rheumatic leg, he rushed toward theriver, crying:--

"'_Man overboard! Man overboard! Gone clean over the forechains!Life-floats to port and starboard!_'

"With such a frightful catastrophe, gentlemen, the remembrance of whichactually makes me nervous, my last speculation in Texas ended. Goingover the whole matter with the captain that evening, --a process whichtook us well into the night, --it was our united opinion that thespeculation was a failure. This conviction was mutual and profound. Thecow was not only gone, but she had shown such disinclination to bedomesticated, and such a misapprehension of the true purpose of life, that the prospect was truly disheartening. 

"'Why, damn it, colonel, ' said the captain, 'we've no evidence that theold cow wanted to be milked!'

"To this discouraging conclusion of the captain's I was compelled togive a sorrowful assent. I recognized that my speculation was inarrears, as it were, and that it would never figure up a profit. 

"Therefore, next day I divided my few personal effects between thecaptain and the noble men who had risked their lives for an idea; whohad seen the tragedy played out and the curtain rung down to my lastappearance, as it were. And, with the few dollars which alone remainedof the fortune which I took with me to Texas, I mounted my horse andstarted northward, to join that noble army of martyrs, that brotherhoodof sufferers, that fraternity of the busted, whose members are legion, and who are known as '_Ex-Texans_. '"

The hilarity of the camp that evening under the foot-hills will never beforgotten by those of us who composed the happy number, and wholistened with streaming eyes and aching sides to the narrative of ourunfortunate guest. He told his story with a directness and simplicity ofnarrative, with a gravity of countenance and plaintiveness of voice, which heightened the humor of the substance. Never did the stars, whichhave seen so much of human happiness, which have listened to so much ofthe rollicking humor of those who were fashioned for laughter, lookeddown upon a jollier camp. Long after our guest had ended his narrativeand was apparently sleeping in happy forgetfulness of his Texasspeculation, succeeding pauses of silence would come roars of laughter. The remembrance of the humorous tale banished sleep, and, even afterslumber had fallen on us all, fun still held possession of our dreams. For Dick, starting from sleep in a nightmare of hilarity, roared out:"_Luff her up, luff her up, or the colonel is busted!_"

Ay, ay, thank God for laughter. Thank him heartily and ever, dearfriend, blow the winds, run the tides as they may. The sorrows of lifemay be many, and its griefs may be keen, and we who are frosted withyears and you who are blooming have felt and will feel the sting offalse friends and the burden of losses; but, lose what we may, or bepained as we have been and shall be, we are happy in this, --we who knowhow to laugh, --that we find wings for each burden, solace for pains, andreturn for all losses, in our sweet sense of humor, thank Heaven! So, whether rich men or poor, healthy or sick, brown-headed or gray, we willgo on like children, with eyes for all beauty and hearts for all fun. Let lilies teach us, and of the birds of the air let us learn. The daythat is not shall not make us anxious, for of each day is the evilenough, and the morrow shall take care of itself. 

[Illustration: THE WICKEDEST COW. ]*

HOW DEACON TUBMAN

and PARSON WHITNEY

CELEBRATED NEW YEARS. 

HOW DEACON TUBMAN AND PARSON WHITNEY CELEBRATED NEW YEAR'S. 

"Mirandy, I'm going up to see the parson, " exclaimed the deacon, whenthe morning devotions were over, "and see if I can thaw him out alittle. I've heard that there used to be a lot in him in his youngerdays, but he's sort of frozen all up latterly, and I can see that theyoung folks are afraid of him and the church too, but that won't do--no, it won't do, " repeated the good man emphatically, "for the ministerought to be loved by young and old, rich and poor, and everybody; and achurch without young folks in it is, why, it is like a family with nochildren in it. Yes, I'll go up and wish him a Happy New Year anyway. Perhaps I can get him out for a ride to make some calls on the people, and see the young folks at their fun. It'll do him good, and them good, and me good, and everybody good. " Saying which, the deacon got insidehis warm fur coat, and started toward the barn to harness Jack into theworn, old-fashioned sleigh, which sleigh was built high in the back, andhad a curved dasher of monstrous proportions, ornamented with a prancinghorse in an impossible attitude, done in bright vermilion on a bluebackground!

"Happy New Year to you, Parson Whitney! Happy New Year to you, " criedthe deacon, as he stood in the doorway of the parsonage and shook theparson by the hand enthusiastically, "and may you live to enjoy ahundred. "

"Come in, come in, " cried Parson Whitney, in response. "I'm glad you'vecome; I'm glad you've come. I've been wanting to see you all themorning, " and in the cordiality of his greeting he literally pulled thelittle man through the doorway into the hall, and hurried him up thestairway to his study in the chamber overhead. 

"Thinking of me! Well, now, I never!" exclaimed the deacon, as, assistedby the parson, he twisted and wriggled himself out of his coat, that hefilled, a little too snugly for an easy exit. "Thinking of me, and amongall these books too--Bibles, catechisms, tracts, theologies, sermons. Well, well, that is funny. What made you think of me?"

"Deacon Tubman, " responded the parson, as he seated himself in hisarmchair, "I want to talk with you about the church. "

"The church!" ejaculated the deacon in response. "Nothing going wrong, Ihope?"

"Yes, things are going wrong, deacon, " responded the parson. "Thecongregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good, strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I trust. "

"Good ones! good ones!" answered the deacon promptly, "neverbetter--never better in the world. "

"And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary, " rejoined the parsonsolemnly, "and the young people won't come to the sociables, and thelittle children seem actually afraid of me. What shall I do, deacon?"and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis. 

"You've hit the nail on the head, square as a hatchet, parson, "responded the deacon. "The congregation is thinning. The young peopledon't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you. "

"What's the matter, deacon?" cried the parson in return. "What is it?"he repeated earnestly. "Speak it right out; don't try to spare myfeelings. I will listen to--I will do anything to win back my people'slove, " and the strong, old-fashioned Calvinistic preacher said it in avoice that actually trembled. 

"You can do it--you can do it in a week!" exclaimed the deaconencouragingly. "Don't worry about it, parson; it'll be all right, it'llbe all right. Your books are the trouble. "

"Books?" ejaculated the parson. "What have they to do with it?"

"Everything, " replied the deacon stoutly. "You pore over them day in andday out; they keep you in this room here when you should be out amongthe people, --not making pastoral visits, --I don't mean that, --but goingaround among them, chatting and joking and having a good time. Theywould like it, and you would like it, and as for the young folks--howold are you, parson?"

"Sixty next month, " answered the parson; "sixty next month, " he repeatedsolemnly. 

"Thirty! thirty! that's all you are, parson, or all you ought to be, "cried the deacon. "Thirty, twenty, sixteen!--let the figures slide downand up, according to circumstances, but never let them go higher thanthirty when you are dealing with young folks. I'm sixty myself, countingyears; but I'm only sixteen, sixteen this morning, that's all, parson, "and he rubbed his little round plump hands together, looked at theparson, and winked. 

"Bless my soul, Deacon Tubman, I don't know but that you are right!"answered the parson. "Sixty? I don't know as I am sixty, " and he beganto rub his own hands, and came within an ace of executing a wink at thedeacon, himself. 

"Not a day over twenty, if I am any judge of age, " responded the deacondeliberately, as he looked the white-headed old minister over with amost comic imitation of seriousness. "Not a day over twenty, on myhonor, " and the deacon leaned forward toward the parson, and gave him apunch with his thumb, as one boy might deliver a punch at another, andthen he lay back in his chair and laughed so heartily that the parsoncaught the infectious mirth and roared away as heartily as himself. 

Yes, it was impossible to sit hobnobbing with the little, jolly deaconon that bright New Year's morning and not be affected by the happinessof his mood, for he was actually bubbling over with fun, and as full offrolic as if the finger on the dial had, in truth, gone back forty-oddyears, and he was "only sixteen. Only sixteen, parson, on my honor. "

"But what can I do?" queried the good man, sobering down. "I make mypastoral visits. "

"Pastoral visits!" responded Deacon Tubman. "Oh, yes, and they are allwell enough for the old folks, but they ar'n't the kind of biscuit theyoung folks like--too heavy in the centre, and over-hard in the crustfor young teeth, eh, parson?"

"But what shall I do? what shall I do?" reiterated the parson, somewhatdespondently. 

"Oh! put on your hat, and gloves, and warmest coat, and come along withme. We will see what the young folks are doing, and will make a day ofit. Come! come! let the old books, and catechisms, and sermons, andtracts have a respite for once, and we'll spend the day out-of-doors, with the boys and girls and the people. "

"I'll do it!" exclaimed the parson. "Deacon Tubman, you are right. I dokeep to my study too closely. I don't see enough of the world and what'sgoing on in it. I was reading the Testament this morning, and I wasimpressed with the Master's manner of living and teaching. It is notcertain that he ever preached more than twice in a church during all hisministry on the earth. And the children! how much he loved the children, and how the little ones loved him! And why shouldn't they love me, too?Why shouldn't they? I'll make them do it! yes, I'll make them do it! Thelambs of my flock shall love me. " And with these brave words ParsonWhitney bundled himself up in his warmest garments, and followed thedeacon downstairs. 

"Tell the folks that you won't be back till night, " called the deaconfrom the sleigh; "for this is New Year, and we're going to make a day ofit, " and he laughed away as heartily as might be--so heartily that theparson joined in the laughter himself as he came shuffling down the icypath toward him. "Bless me! how much younger I feel already!" said thegood man as he stood up in the sleigh, and with a long, strong breathbreathed the cool, pure air into his lungs. "Bless me! how much youngerI feel already!" he repeated, as he settled down into the roomy seat ofthe old sleigh. "Only sixteen to-day, --eh, deacon?" and he nudged himwith his elbow. 

"That's all, that's all, parson, " answered the deacon gayly, as henudged him vigorously back; "that's all we are, either of us, " and, laughing as merrily as two boys, the two glided away in the sleigh. 

Well, perhaps they didn't have fun that day, these two old boys that hadstarted out with the feeling that they were "only sixteen, " and bound tomake "a day of it!" And they did make a day of it, in fact, and such aday as neither had had for forty years; for, first, they went toBartlett's Hill, where the boys and girls were coasting, and coastedwith them for a full hour, --and then it was discovered by the youngerportion of his flock that the parson was not an old, stiff, solemn, surly poke, as they had thought, but a pleasant, good-natured, kindlysoul, who could take and give a joke, and steer a sled as well as thesmartest boy in the crowd; and when it came to snow-balling, he couldsend a ball further than Bill Sykes himself, who could out-throw any boyin town, and roll up a bigger block to the new snow fort they werebuilding than any three boys among them. And how the parson enjoyedbeing a boy again! How exhilarating the slide down the steep hill; howinvigorating the pure, cool air; how pleasant the noise of the chattingand joking going on around him; how bright and sweet the boys and girlslooked, with their rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes; and how the oldparson's heart thrilled as they crowded around him when he would go, andurged him to stay, --and little Alice Dorchester begged him, with herlittle arms around his neck, to "jes' stay and gib me one more slide, please!"

"You never made such a pastoral call as that, parson, " said the deacon, as they drove away amid the cheers of the boys and the "good-bys" of thegirls, while the former fired off a volley of snow-balls in his honor, and the latter waved their muffs and handkerchiefs after them. 

"God bless them! God bless them!" said the parson. "They have lifted aload from my heart, and taught me the sweetness of life, of youth, andthe wisdom of Him who took the little ones in His arms, and blessedthem. Ah, deacon, " he added, "I've been a great fool, but I'll be so, thank God! no more. "

Now, old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character, and had a greathistory; but of this none in that section, save the little deacon, knewa word. Dick Tubman, the deacon's youngest, wildest, and, we might add, favorite son, had purchased him of an impecunious jockey, at the closeof a disastrous campaign, that cleaned him completely out, and left himin a strange city a thousand miles from home, with nothing but thehorse, harness, and sulky, and a list of unpaid bills that must be metbefore he could leave the scene of his disastrous fortunes. Under suchcircumstances it was that Dick Tubman ran across the horse, and partlyout of pity for its owner, and partly out of admiration of the horse, whose failure to win at the races was due more to his lack of conditionand the bad management of his jockey than lack of speed, bought himoff-hand, and, having no use for him himself, shipped him as a presentto the deacon, with whom he had now been four years, with no harder workthan ploughing out the good old man's corn in the summer, and joggingalong the country roads on the deacon's errands. Having said thus muchof the horse, perhaps we should more particularly describe him. 

He was, in sooth, an animal of most unique and extraordinary appearance;for, in the first place, he was quite seventeen hands in height, andlong in proportion. He was also the reverse of shapely in the fashion ofhis build: for his head was long and bony, and his hip bones sharp andprotuberant; his tail was what is known among horsemen as a rat-tail, being but scantily covered with hair, and his neck was even morescantily supplied with a mane, while in color he could easily have takenany premium put up for homeliness, being an ashen roan, mottled withflecks and patches of divers hues; but his legs were flat and cordedlike a racer's, his neck long and thin as a thoroughbred's, his nostrilslarge, his ears sharply pointed and lively, while the white rings aroundhis eyes hinted at a cross, somewhere in his pedigree, with Arabianblood. A huge, bony, homely-looking horse he was, who drew the deaconand Miranda into the village on market days and Sundays, with a loose, shambling gait, making altogether an appearance so homely and peculiarthat the smart village chaps riding along in their jaunty turn-outs usedto chaff the good deacon on the character of his steed, and satiricallychallenge him to a brush. The deacon always took their badinage in goodpart, although he inwardly said more than once, "If I ever get a goodchance, when there ar'n't too many around, I'll go up to the turn of theroad beyond the church, and let Jack out on them;" for Dick had givenhim a hint of the horse's history, and told him "he could knock thespots out of thirty, " and wickedly urged the deacon to take the starchout of them airy chaps some of these days. Such was the horse, then, that the deacon had ahead of him, and the old-fashioned sleigh, when, with the parson alongside, he struck into the principal street of thevillage. 

Now, New Year's Day is a lively day in many country villages, and onthis bright one especially, as the sleighing was perfect, everybody wasout. Indeed, it had got noised abroad that certain trotters of localfame were to be on the street that afternoon, and, as the boys wordedit, "there would be heaps of fun going on. " And so it happened thateverybody in town, and many who lived out of it, were on this particularstreet, and just at the hour, too, when the deacon came to the foot ofit, so that the walk on either side was lined darkly with lookers-on, and the smooth snow-path between the two lines looked like a veritablehomestretch on a race-day. 

Now, when the deacon had reached the corner of the main street andturned into it, it was at that point where the course terminated and the"brushes" were ended, and at the precise moment when the dozen or twentyhorses that had just come flying down were being pulled up preparatoryto returning at a slow gait to the customary starting-point at the headof the street, a half-mile away, so that the old-fashioned sleigh wassurrounded by the light, fancy cutters of the rival racers, and oldJack was shambling awkwardly along in the midst of the high-spirited andsmoking nags that had just come flying down the stretch. 

"Hellow, deacon, " shouted one of the boys, who was driving atrim-looking bay, and who had crossed the line at the ending of thecourse second only to a pacer that could "speed like a streak oflightning, " as the boys said, --"Hellow, deacon; ain't you going to shakeout old shamble-heels, and show us fellows what speed is to-day?" Andthe merry-hearted chap, son of the principal lawyer of the place, laughed heartily at his challenge, while the other drivers looked at thegreat angular horse that, without any check, was walking carelesslyalong, with his head held down, ahead of the old sleigh and its churchlyoccupants. 

"I don't know but what I will, " answered the deacon, good-naturedly;"don't know but what I will, if the parson don't object, and you won'tstart off too quick to begin with; for this is New Year's, and alittle extra fun won't hurt any of us, I reckon. "

[Illustration: THE DEACON AND PARSON. ]

"Do it, do it; we'll hold up for you, " answered a dozen merry voices. "Do it, deacon: it'll do old shamble-heels good to go a ten-mile-an-hourgait for once in his life, and the parson needn't fear of beingscandalized by any speed you'll get out of him, either;" and the merrychaps haw-hawed as men and boys will, when every one is jolly and funflows fast. 

And so, with any amount of good-natured chaffing from the drivers of the"fast 'uns, " and from many that lined the road too, --for the day gavegreater liberty than usual to bantering speech, --the speedy ones pacedslowly up to the head of the street, with old Jack shambling demurely inthe midst of them. 

But the horse was a knowing old fellow, and had "scored" at too manyraces not to know that the "return" was to be leisurely taken, and, indeed, he was a horse of independence, and of too even, perhaps of toosluggish, a temperament, to waste himself in needless action; but hehad the right stuff in him, and hadn't forgotten his early trainingeither, for when he came to the "turn, " his head and tail came up, hiseye brightened, and, with a playful movement of his huge body, andwithout the least hint from the deacon, he swung himself and thecumbrous old sleigh into line, and began to straighten himself for thecoming brush. 

Now, Jack was, as we have said, a horse of huge proportions, and needed"steadying" at the start, but the good deacon had no experience with the"ribbons, " and was therefore utterly unskilled in the matter of driving;and so it came about that old Jack was so confused at the start that hemade a most awkward and wretched appearance in his effort to get off, being all "mixed up, " as the saying is, --so much so that the crowdroared at his ungainly efforts, and his flying rivals were twenty rodsaway before he even got started. But at last he got his huge body in astraight line, and, leaving his miserable shuffle, squared away to hiswork, and, with head and tail up, went off at so slashing a gait that itfairly took the deacon's breath away, and caused the crowd that had beenhooting him to roar their applause, while the parson grabbed the edge ofthe old sleigh with one hand and the rim of his tall black hat with theother. 

What a pity, Mr. Longface, that God made horses as they are, and gavethem such grandeur of appearance when in action, and put such aneagle-like spirit between their ribs, so that, quitting the ploddingmotions of the ox, they can fly like that noble bird, and come sweepingdown the course as on wings of the wind!

It was not my fault, nor the deacon's, nor the parson's either, pleaseremember, then, that awkward, shuffling, homely-looking old Jack wasthus suddenly transformed, by the royalty of blood, of pride, and ofspeed given him by his Creator, from what he ordinarily was, into amagnificent spectacle of energetic velocity. 

With muzzle lifted well up, tail erect, the few hairs in it streamingstraight behind, one ear pricked forward and the other turned sharplyback, the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidlybringing him even with the rear line of the flying group. And yet solittle was the pace to him that he fairly gambolled in playfulness as hewent slashing along, until the deacon verily began to fear that thehonest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and sendhis heels antically through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, thespectacle that the huge horse presented was so magnificent, his actionso free, spirited, and playful, as he came sweeping onward, that cheersand exclamations, such as, "Good heavens! see the deacon's old horse!""Look at him! look at him!" "What a stride!" etc. , ran ahead of him, andold Bill Sykes, a trainer in his day, but now a hanger-on at thevillage tavern, or that section of it known as the bar, wiped hiswatery eyes with his tremulous fist, as he saw Jack come swinging down, and, as he swept past with his open gait, powerful stroke, and stifflesplaying well out, brought his hand with a mighty slap against his thigh, and said, "I'll be blowed if he isn't a regular old timer!"

It was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise andcheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead, or therewould surely have been more than one collision, for the old sleigh wasof such size and strength, the good deacon so unskilled at the reins, and Jack, who was adding to his momentum with every stride, was going atso determined a pace, that, had he struck the rear line, with no gap forhim to go through, something serious would surely have happened. But, asit was, the drivers saw the huge horse, with the cumbrous old sleighbehind him, bearing down on them at such a gait as made their own speed, sharp as it was, seem slow, and "pulled out" in time to savethemselves; and so without any mishap the big horse and heavy sleighswept through the rear row of racers like an autumn gust through acluster of leaves. 

By this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed, for Jack was goingnigh to a thirty clip, --a frightful pace for an inexperienced man toride, --and began to put a good strong pressure upon the bit, notdoubting that old Jack--ordinarily the easiest horse in the world tomanage--would take the hint and immediately slow up. But though the hugehorse took the hint, it was exactly in the opposite manner that thedeacon intended he should, for he interpreted the little man's steadypull as an intimation that his inexperienced driver was getting over hisflurry and beginning to treat him as a big horse ought to be treated ina race, and that he could now, having got settled to his work, go ahead. And go ahead he did. The more the deacon pulled, the more the greathorse felt himself steadied and assisted. And so, the harder the goodman tugged at the reins, the more powerfully the machinery of the biganimal ahead of him worked, until the deacon got alarmed, and began tocall upon the horse to stop, crying, "Whoa, Jack! whoa, old boy, I say!Whoa, will you now, that's a good fellow!" and many other coaxing calls, while he pulled away steadily at the reins. 

But the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls, as he had his pressureon the reins, for the crowd on either side were now yelling, andhooting, and swinging their caps, so that the deacon's voice cameindistinctly to his ears at the best, and he interpreted his calls forhim to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for him to goahead; and so, with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood, the crowd cheering him to the echo, the steadying pull and encouragingcries of his driver in his ears, and his only rival, the pacer, whirlingalong only a few rods ahead of him, the monstrous animal, with adesperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the snow, let outanother link, and, with such a burst of speed as was never seen in thevillage before, tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that, within the distance of a dozen lengths, he lay lapped upon him, and thetwo were going it nose and nose. 

What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with manor animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity whenengaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do weenter so spiritedly into the contest, and lose ourselves in theexcitement of the moment? Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage?Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us, that loves nothing so muchas victory, and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, nosooner was old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urginghim along with reins and voice alike, and the contest seemeddoubtful, than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deaconand the parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of therace, they fairly forgot themselves, and entered as wildly into thecontest as two ungodly jockeys. 

[Illustration: THE RACE. ]

"Deacon Tubman!" said the parson, as he clutched the rim of his tallhat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips were peltingin showers, more stoutly, "Deacon Tubman! do you think the pacer willbeat us?"

"Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon inreply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he instinctivelylifted Jack to another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shoutedencouragingly. "Go along with you, I say!" and the parson, also carriedaway by the whirl of the moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go alongwith you, I say!"

This was the very thing, and the only thing, that huge horse, whoseblood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort;and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, hegathered himself together for another burst of speed, and put forth hiscollected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness ofmovement that the little deacon, who had risen, and was standing erectin the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the greathorse rushed over the line a winner by a clear length, amid such cheersand roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before. 

Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark--wemay say favoring remark--than the parson, who suddenly found himself thecentre of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcelybe expected as participants of such a scene, but who, thawed out oftheir iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited overJack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as anyjolly sinner in the crowd. 

So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a Happy NewYear, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all manyhappy returns; and everybody praised old Jack, and rallied the deacon onhis driving; and then everybody went home good-natured and happy, laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the change that hadcome over Parson Whitney. 

And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twentyyears from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go homeand eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage; and he did. And at thetable they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day, andjoked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told somereminiscences of his college days, and the scrapes he got into, and ariot between town and gown, when he carried the "Bully's Club;" and thedeacon responded by narrating his experiences with a certain DeaconJones's watermelon patch when he was a boy, and over their tales andtheir mulled cider they laughed till they cried, and roared so lustilyat the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonagerang, the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of thetheological volumes actually gaped with horror. 

But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, and thelaughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-by, and jogged happily homeward; but more than once he laughed to himself, and said, "Bless my soul! I didn't know the parson had so much fun inhim. " And long the parson sat by the glowing grate after the deacon hadleft him, musing of other days, and the happy, pleasant things that werein them; and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at someremembered folly, for he said, "What a wild boy I was, and yet I meantno wrong; and the dear old days were very happy. "

Ay, ay! Parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only tothee, but to all of us, who, following our sun, have fared westward solong that the light of the morning shows dull through the dim haze ofmemory. But happier than even the old days will be the young ones, Iween, when, following still westward, we suddenly come to the gates ofthe new east and the morning once more; and there, in the dawn of a daywhich is cloudless and endless, we find our lost youth and its loves, tolose them and it no more forever, thank God!

 THE LEAF OF RED ROSE. 

 THE LEAF OF RED ROSE:

 THE OLD TRAPPER'S STORY. 

 A story? Why, yes. If Henry, there, will translate it And put it in verse and print as he promised To do when it happened. Will he do it? I doubt. He dislikes to dabble with rhyme and with measure. Says that good honest prose is the best and the sweetest If the words be well chosen, short, Saxon, and pithy. And that making of verse is the business of women, Of green boys at school, and of lovers when spooning. But try him. It may be he will. For a lesson Is in it, and that makes it worth telling. The woods have their secrets and sorrows and struggles As well as the cities. You can find in the woods Many things, if you look, beside trees, rocks, and mountains. 

 Jack Whitcomb he said his name was, though I doubted. For the name on his bosom, tattooed in purple, Didn't point quite that way. But that doesn't matter. One name in the woods is as good as another If a man answers to it and it's easily spoken. So we called him Jack Whitcomb and asked nothing further. Brave? Why, of course he was brave. Men are not cowards. Cowards don't come to the woods. They stay in the cities, Where policemen are thick and the streets are all lighted. In the woods men trail with their ears and eyes open, And sleep when they sleep with their hands on their rifles. Why? Well, panthers are plenty and cunning and quiet, And a man is a fool that goes carelessly stumbling Under trees where they crouch, under crags where they gather. Furthermore, with the saints, now and then there are sinners That live in the woods; and some half-breeds are wicked, And know nothing of law unless taught by a bullet. I've done what I could to teach knaves the commandments. Yes. Jack Whitcomb was brave. Brave as the bravest. His glance was as keen and his mouth was as silent As a trailer's should be who looks and who listens By day and by night, having no one to talk to. His finger was quick when it handled the trigger, And his eye loved the sights as lightning loves rivers. I've seen him stand up when the odds were against him. Stand up like a man who takes coolly the chances. That proves he was brave as I understand it. 

 One day we were boating on far Mistassinni. We were fetching the portage above the great rapids, Where they whirled, roaring down, freshet full, at their whitest, When we saw from a rock that stretched outward and over The wild hissing water as it swept on in thunder, A canoe coming down, rolling over and over, With a little papoose clinging tight to the lashings; And as it lanced by Jack went in like an otter. How he did it God knows, but at the foot of the rapids, Half a mile farther down racing onward, I found him High and dry on the beach in a faint like a woman, With the little papoose pulling away at his jacket. And when he came to, he put child to his shoulder, Nor stopped till it lay in the arms of its mother. 

 We were trailing, Henry and I, trailing and trapping In the land to the north, where fur was the thickest, And knaves were as plenty as mink or as otter. We took turns at sleeping, and trailed our line double To keep our own skins, if we didn't get others. It was folly to stay where we were, and we knew it, For the knaves they got thicker, and soon there was shooting Going on pretty lively. But we held to the business And scouted the line once a week like true trappers. And no accident happened save some holes in our jackets, And my powder-horn emptied by a vagabond's bullet. So we mended our clothing and felt pretty lively. But the signs pointed one way. Our enemies thickened Around us each day, and we weren't quite decided To stand in for a fight and settle the matter, Or pull up our traps and get out of the country, When it settled itself. And in this way it happened. 

 We were scouting the lake on the west shore one morning, To find the knaves' camp and how many were in it, When a short space ahead there came of a sudden A crash as of thunder, and we knew that a dozen Or twenty placed rifles had burst an ambushment. And then in an instant there sounded another. Two sharp, twin reports and the death yells that followed Told us as we listened where the lead had been driven. Knew who he was? Of course. The man was Jack Whitcomb. Do you think men who live by trapping and shooting Don't learn to distinguish the voice of their rifles? Jack was trailing the lake to find our encampment, For far away in the south there had come to his cabin A rumor that we in the north land were holding Our line and our furs with a good deal of shooting. So he left his own traps and came by swift trailing To give us the help of another good rifle. That was just like Jack Whitcomb. If you were in trouble He was there by your side. You could always count on him, With finger on trigger and both barrels loaded. 

 So Henry and I both took to our covers Right and left of the trail Jack must take in retreating. We didn't wait long, for the boy knew his business, And soon he came backward, loading and running, Like a man who was busy but wouldn't be hurried Beyond his own gait, if he stopped there forever. As he passed our two covers I piped him a whistle; And he stopped in his tracks, and with low, pleasant laughter, Stood there in full view coolly capping the nipples. I have shot on each Gulf, both Southern and Northern. I have trailed the long trail between either ocean. Brave men I have seen, both in good and in evil, But never a braver than the man called Jack Whitcomb. Well, why describe it? Call it scrimmage or battle, It was done in a minute, or it may be a dozen. It came like a whirlwind, and we three were in it As men are in whirlwinds. It came like the thunder, With a crash and a roar and a long running rumble Dying down into silence. There were dead and some wounded, And a few lucky knaves that fled wildly backward; And Henry and I, when it passed, were left standing By the body of him whose name was Jack Whitcomb, Who lay as he fell, when headlong he tumbled, His rifle still clinched and both barrels smoking. I have seen in my life many wounds made by bullets, And a good many gashes by spear-points and arrows. I have learned in my trailing a good many simples Which have power to keep men from crossing the river Before the Lord calls with voice that is certain. And the wound that we found on Jack Whitcomb's body, Though ugly and deep, was not beyond curing. 

 We cleansed and we stanched it and fought a brave battle With death, for his life, and we won. For Jack mended. We made a canoe and we bore him far southward. A hundred good miles down the river we boated, Till we came to his house of huge logs, strongly builded, Beneath the big pines on the bank of a rapid, Which under it flowed its soft rush of brown water. 'Twas a place to bring peace to a heart that was troubled, If peace might be found this side of the silence Which brings peace to all that know sorrow in living. 

 Yes, we boated him down to his home by the rapids. His home? No, rather his house let us call it. For how can a house be a home with naught in it? In house that is home must be love, warm and human, A voice that is sweet, a heart that is gentle, A soul that is true, and beside these a cradle That prattles and coos; and the quick-falling patter Of little white feet that run hither and thither. To his house, and not to his home, then, we brought him, For certainly nothing and no one was in it, Save himself and a dog, a bed and a table, Some chairs, a few books, and a--Picture. And this was the story that he told us in dying. The man might have lived, beyond doubt, had he cared to. But he didn't. No motive, he said. And he had none, As we felt later on, when he told us his story. So he died without word or sign. And in silence We stood and saw him go forth on his journey Without speaking a word, without a hand lifted To hold or to stop him, for we did not feel certain What was wisdom for one who went forth in such fashion. Perhaps it was best he should go and be over With pain, loss and trouble for ever and ever. Henry says, it were well we should all of us go When life has no aim and no hope; and no doing Remains to be done; and days are but eating And drinking and breathing, only these and no more. 

 But before he went forth he gave me a message. "I loved her, " so his story began. Henry, You remember the look on his face as he said it, As he lay with his eyes fixed fast on the Picture? "She was strong, and she drew me as life draws the young And as death draws the old. I could not resist her. She was vital with force, to attract and to hold. She raced me a race for my life, and she won it. I was man, not a boy, and I loved as man loves When the forces of life are in him full-flooded As rivers in meadows, when they flow to the sedges. Did she love me? Perhaps. Who can tell? She was woman, And hence she was dark as the night, and as hidden! Who could find her? Who the depth of her nature Might measure? I tried but could not. Then boldly I spake--spake as man speaks but once unto woman. True and straight did I say it man fashion. But she drew back offended; she shrank from my praying, And with coldness of tone and suspicion dismissed me. Had a man shown a tithe of that look in his eye, On his face, he or I would have died on the instant. But what can a man do, when scorned by a woman? So I left her. 

 I need not say more. My life it was ended. It wasn't worth living;--I am made in that fashion. So I came to the woods. Where else when in trouble Can man go and find what he needs, consolation? Go you down to her house, in the city, John Norton, To the house where she lives, and give her this message. Word for word let her hear it, --say where you left me. There's gold in that box to pay your expenses. Word for word as I tell you, nor say a word further. " Then he bade us good-by, and marched away bravely, As a man on a trail that is somewhat uncertain. And under the pines on the bank of the rapids We buried the man whom the woods called--Jack Whitcomb, And the picture he loved we placed on his bosom. 

 * * * * *

 I went down to her house in the city. A cabin Of stone, brown as tamarack bark, trimmed with olive. It was high as a pine that stands on a mountain. The door was as wide as the mouth of a cavern. At the door stood a man rigged up like a soldier; His face was as solemn as judgment to sinners; He looked at me some, and I looked him all over, Then he suddenly bowed like a half-breed with manners, And told me to enter, and he would call Madame. The room was as large as a town house where settlers Hold meetings to vote themselves office and wages. The walls were like caves in far Arizona. All covered with pictures of houses and battles; Of ships blown onward by gales in mid-ocean; Of children with wings, pretty queer-looking creatures; Of men and of women, and some were half-naked. But the floor was of oak, which gleamed like a polish; And with mats thick as moss, and with skins it was covered, So I felt quite at home, as there I stood looking, And noting the size and signs of the cabin. 

 Then, all of a sudden, there came a soft rustle, Like the rustle of leaves when the wind blows in autumn. And down the wide stairway across the great hall, To the door of the room in which I was standing, Stately and swift, came a woman and entered. Tall as the tallest. Made firmly, knit firmly Both in form and in limb, but full and well rounded; Dark of eye, dark of face, with hair like a raven, Like the girls of Nevada, where live the old races, Whose blood is as fire, and whose skin is of olive, Whose mouths are as sweet as a fig when it ripens. Arms bare to the shoulders. Neck and bosom uncovered. Her gown of white satin gleamed and flowed downward And round her in folds of soft, creamy whiteness. No ring on her hand, nor in ear. Not a circle Of gold round her throat. One armlet of silver, And one at her wrist loosely clasped, small and slender. So she entered and stood, and looked me all over. 

 Then slowly she spake. "Your name, sir, and business?" "Madame, " I said, "in the woods men call me John Norton; John Norton, the Trapper. " Then I stopped mighty sudden, For her face it grew white to the lips and the chin, And she swayed as a tree to the stroke of the chopper When he sinks his axe in to the heart and it totters And quivers. So I stopped, stopped quick and stood looking. 

 Then her dark face it lighted, and she said, speaking quickly: "John Norton, I know you. I know you are honest. You live in the woods. You are good. I can trust you. All men, I have heard, come to you in their trouble. Have you seen in the North, have you met in the woods, Has there come to your cabin a man, tall as you, Brave as you and as tender? A man like to this?" And out of her gown, from the folds on her bosom, She lifted a locket of pearl-colored velvet, Touched a spring, and I saw, as the lid of it opened, The face of the man I and Henry had buried!

 "John Norton, " she cried, and her eyes burned like fever. Her hand shook and trembled, her face was as marble, "Have you seen in the woods man like to this picture? Speak quick and speak true as to woman in trouble. For I did him great wrong, I thought he held lightly My fair name and fame; held lightly my honor. I thought he meant evil, and my heart, filled with anger, Dismissed him in scorn; but I learned, I learned later, He was true, and spake truth and loved me as heaven. "

 Then I stood and I looked and held my face steady, So it gave her no sign of what I was thinking. I saw she was honest, and I wished then to spare her, But my word it was pledged, pledged to him in dying, To stand as I stood, face to face with this woman, In her house, in that room, and give her his message. Beside, not to know is far worse than the knowing At times. So I rallied and told her the message, Word for word, as he charged, the night he lay dying In his house on the bank above the swift rapids. 

 "Madame, " I said, "I have seen man like that picture, Face and form. He was brave as you say. He was tender. He was true unto death, and he loved you as heaven. And these are the words that he sent you in dying. I, a man of the woods, bring you this as last message, From one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids Of that northern river which pours its brown water To the Lake of St. John from far Mistassinni. 'Tell her, John Norton, I loved her. Loved her in living, With a love that was true, and with same love in dying. Loved her like a man, like a saint, like a sinner, For time now and time ever. That the one picture She gave me I kept;--living, dying, and after. That it lies on the breast of the man that you buried; On the breast of the man who living did love her, And that there it will lie until it shall crumble, With heart underneath it, to dust. So tell her. And in proof that I tell her the truth, and did tell it The night when we met, and I told her I loved her, Give her this, the watch that I wore on the evening We met, and the evening we parted. Let her open And see. With her eyes let her see that I loved her. So say and no more. "

 Thus I spake. Word for word as he told me I spake. I gave her the watch, and I said no word further. I had done as I pledged, I had said as he charged me, So I stopped and stood waiting for word of dismissal. But she said not a word, nor made she a sign. The watch she took from me, touched the spring and it opened, And there, 'twixt the glass and the gold, withered and faded, Lay a leaf of Red Rose. One leaf, and--no more. 

 For a moment she stood; stood, and gazed at the leaf, Her face grew as white as her gown, and she trembled And shook like a white swan in dying, then she cried, "My God, I have killed him, my lover!" And down on the floor, on the skins at her feet She dropped as one stricken by bullet or lightning. 

 It was only last month that we two, in trailing, Trailed a hundred good miles across to the rapids. For we wanted to see before going northward If evil had come to the grave of our comrade. But the grave lay untouched, by beast or by human. The grass on the mound was well rooted and growthful. At the foot of the grave the rose-tree I planted Was as high as my head. And the leaves of the roses Lay as thick as red snow-flakes on the mound that was under. And we knew that on breast, as he slept, was her picture. So we felt, as we gazed, it was well with Jack Whitcomb. 

 But often at night, when alone in my cabin, I hear the low murmur of far northern rapids. And often I see the great house and its splendor, And wonder if death has helped the proud woman To lay off her grief and escape from her sorrow. And blazed a line through the dark Valley of Shadow, And brought her in peace to the edge of the clearing, Where I know she would see Jack Whitcomb stand, waiting. 

 So I say it again, and I say it with knowledge, That the woods have their sorrows as well as the cities. And he knows but little of this great northern forest Who thinks there's naught in it save trees, lakes, and mountains. 

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NEW EDITIONS OF W. H. H. MURRAY'S FAMOUS BOOKS. 

=DAYLIGHT LAND. = The experiences, incidents, and adventures, humorous andotherwise, which befell Judge John Doe, Tourist, of San Francisco; Mr. Cephas Pepperell, Capitalist, of Boston; Colonel Goffe, the man from NewHampshire, and divers others, in their Parlor-Car Excursion over Prairieand Mountain; as recorded and set forth by W. H. H. MURRAY. Superblyillustrated with 150 cuts in various colors by the best artists. 8vo, 350 pages. Unique paper covers, $2. 50; cloth, $3. 50; cloth, extra gilt, $4. 00. 

_The New York Herald_; says, Impossible to find a handsomer book on outdoor life than this. Theauthor's peculiar faculty for describing days in the woods and rambleswith good company has long been known. "Daylight Land" is longer thanthe book in which the same author made the Adirondacks seem some otherplace to men whose eyes were not as wide-open as his own, and the styleis even breezier, if that is possible. Seldom does a book appear whichis so entirely creditable to author, artist, and publisher. 

=HOW DEACON TUBMAN AND PARSON WHITNEY KEPT NEW YEAR'S, and Other Stories. =By W. H. H. MURRAY, author of "Adirondack Tales, " etc. 12mo. Illustrated. $1. 25. 

Deacon Tubman, a jolly, fat, good-natured man, is presented with awoollen night-cap on New Year's morning by his housekeeper, "a typicalspinster not overburdened with fat. " This so rejoices the Deacon that heis possessed to make others happy, goes to call upon his pastor, andmakes him leave his books and spend the day skating, sleighing, anddriving with his parishioners. 

 * * * * *

=STORY THE KEG TOLD ME, AND THE STORY OF THE MAN WHO DIDN'T KNOW MUCH. = ByW. H. H. MURRAY, author of "Daylight Land, " "Adirondack Adventures, "etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 50. 

"Two admirable stories by W. H. H. Murray, in both which appears JohnNorton, the trapper, a character that promises to become as much of afavorite as is the hero of the Leather Stocking novels. These storieshave a bracing outdoor freshness and a delightfully crisp realism: arevigorous in tone, and strong and picturesque in the relation. Takenaltogether, they may be pronounced in the most artistic of Mr. Murray'sexcursions into the realms of fiction, and fascinating generally. "--_Saturday Evening Gazette. _

=DEACONS. = By W. H. H. MURRAY. 16mo. Paper, 50 cts. Cloth, 75 cts. 

"Mr. Murray is an expert in the art of character drawing; he canmanipulate humor and pathos with equal facility. No one will gainsaytheir freshness and individuality. "--_N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. _

=ADIRONDACK ADVENTURES. = "In the Wilderness; or, Camp Life in theAdirondacks. " By W. H. H. MURRAY, 12mo. Illustrated. Paper, 50 cts. Cloth, $1. 25. 

"In the 'Adventures in the Wilderness' W. H. H. Murray strikes the happyhunting ground, which long ago earned for him the popular title, 'Adirondack Murray, ' and here, as in his other books, he fairly revelsin stirring incident, lively and faithful conception of character, andthe powerful but delightful description of natural scenery which havealready given his work an enviable and lasting place in Americanliterature. "--_Nashville American. _

=THE BUSTED EX-TEXAN, AND OTHER STORIES. = By W. H. H. MURRAY. Withphotogravure portrait of Mr. Murray, and eight full-page illustrationsby Thos. Worth. Square 12mo. Cloth, $1. 00. 

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=CIVILIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES, AND OTHER ESSAYS CONCERNING AMERICA. =By MATTHEW ARNOLD. 16mo. Unique paper boards, 50 cts. Cloth, uncut, $1. 25. The cloth binding matches the uniform edition of his collectedworks. Comprises the critical essays, which created so much discussion, namely, "General Grant, an Estimate, " "A Word About America, " "A WordMore About America, " and "Civilization in the United States. " Thecollection gathers in the great critic's last contribution toliterature. 

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BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY. 

=THE AGE OF CHIVALRY; Or Legends of King Arthur. = "Stories of the RoundTable, " "The Crusades, " "Robin Hood, " etc. By THOMAS BULFINCH. A new andenlarged edition. Revised by Rev. E. E. HALE. Large 12mo. Illustrated. $2. 50. 

In "The Age of Fable, " Mr. Bulfinch endeavored to impart the pleasure ofclassical learning to the English reader by presenting the stories ofPagan mythology in a form adapted to modern taste. In this volume theattempt has been made to treat in the same way the stories of the second"age of fable"--the age which witnessed the dawn of the several statesof modern Europe. 

=THE AGE OF FABLE; Or, Beauties of Mythology. = By THOMAS BULFINCH. A newand enlarged edition, containing over 100 illustrations from ancientpaintings and statuary. Revised by Rev. E. E. HALE. Large 12mo. $2. 50. 

Young readers will find this book a source of entertainment; those moreadvanced, a useful companion in their reading; those who travel andvisit museums and galleries of art, an interpreter of paintings andsculptures. 

=LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE; Or, Romance of the Middle Ages. = Stories ofPaladin and Saracen. By THOMAS BULFINCH. 12mo. Illustrated. $2. 50. 

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PROF. CLARK MURRAY'S WORKS. 

=SOLOMON MAIMON=: An Autobiography. Translated from the German, withAdditions and Notes, by Prof. J. CLARK MURRAY. Cr. 8vo. Cloth. 307pages. $2. 00. 

The London _Spectator_ says: "Dr. Clark Murray has had the rare goodfortune of first presenting this singularly vivid book in an Englishtranslation as pure and lively as if it were an original, and anoriginal by a classic English writer. "

George Eliot, in "Daniel Deronda, " mentions it as "that wonderful bit ofautobiography--the life of the Polish Jew, Solomon Maimon:" and Milman, in his "History of the Jews, " refers to it as a curious and rare book. 

=HANDBOOK OF PSYCHOLOGY. = By Prof. J. CLARK MURRAY, LL. D. , Professor ofMental and Moral Philosophy, M'Gill College, Montreal. Cr. 8vo. 2dedition, enlarged and improved. $1. 75. 

Clearly and simply written, with illustrations so well chosen that thedullest student can scarcely fail to take an interest in the subject. 

Adopted for use in colleges in Scotland, England, Canada, and the UnitedStates. 

Prof. Murray's good fortune in bringing to light the "Maimon Memoirs, "together with the increasing popularity of his "Handbook of Psychology, "has attracted the attention of the intellectual world, giving him aposition with the leaders of thought of the present age. His writingsare at once original and suggestive. 

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_Standard and Popular Books. _

THE POPULAR WORKS OF SALLY PRATT MCLEAN. 

=CAPE COD FOLKS. = A Novel. Twenty-third edition. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 25. Paper, 50 cents. 

=TOWHEAD: THE STORY OF A GIRL. = Fifth Thousand. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 25. Paper, 50 cents. 

Since the production of Miss McLean's first effort "Cape Cod Folks, " shehas steadily advanced in intellectual development; the same genius is atwork in a larger and more artistic manner, until she has at lengthproduced what must be truly considered as her masterpiece, and which wehave the pleasure to announce for immediate publication. 

=SOME OTHER FOLKS. = A Book in Four Stories. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 25. Paper, 50cents. 

These books are so well known that further comment seems superfluous. Suffice it to say that the entire press of the country has unanimouslyspoken of them in terms of high praise, dwelling not only on theirdelicious humor, their literary workmanship, their genuine pathos, andtheir real power and eloquence, but what has been described as theirdeep, true _humanness_, and the inimitable manner in which the mirror isheld up to nature that all may see reflected therein some familiartrait, some description or character which is at once recognized. 

=LASTCHANCE JUNCTION: HUMAN NATURE IN THE FAR WEST. = A Novel. By SALLYPRATT MCLEAN. 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 25. 

"Terse, incisive descriptions of men and scenery, drawn with so vivid apen that one can see the characters and their setting, delicious bits ofhumor, passages full of infinite pathos, make this book absolutely holdthe reader from the title to the last word, and as, when finished, onesighs for the pity of it, the feeling rises that such a work has notbeen written in vain, and will have its place among those which tend toelevate our race. "

=MISS FRANCES MERLEY. = A Novel. By JOHN ELLIOT CURRAN. 420 pages. Square16mo. Paper covers, 50 cents. Cloth, $1. 00. 

The first important work of an author familiar to American readers byhis remarkable sketches to _Scribner's_ and other magazines. 

=AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A NEW ENGLAND FARM HOUSE=: A Romance of the Cape CodLands. By N. H. CHAMBERLAIN. 380 pages. Square 16mo. Paper covers, 50cents. Cloth, $1. 00. 

A novel of singular power and beauty, great originality and ruggedforce. Born and bred on Cape Cod, the author, at the winter firesides ofcountry people, very conservative of ancient English customs now gone, heard curious talk of kings, Puritan ministers, the war and precedentstruggle of our Revolution, and touched a race of men and women nowpassed away. He also heard, chiefly from ancient women, the traditionsof ghosts, witches and Indians, as they are preserved, and to a degreebelieved, by honest Christian folk, in the very teeth of modernprogress. 

 _Publishers_, _DeWolfe, Fiske & Co. _ _Booksellers_, _BOSTON. _ _Library Agents_.